


In a Sea Filled to the Brim of Noise; There was My Failure of a Self, A Dog and You

by Falgift



Series: The Waltz of Malice (Beyond Paradise) [1]
Category: Fire Emblem: If | Fire Emblem: Fates
Genre: Amputation, Beating, Bondage, Degradation, Descent into Madness, Electrocution, Emetophilia, Erotic Grotesque, Evil!Nohr AU, Fantastical Drugs, Forced Crossdressing, Forced Incest, Forced Marriage, Gore, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Incest, M/M, Male Lactation, Mind Rape, Multi, Needles, Piercings, Psychological Torture, Rape, Reverse Futanari, Rimming, Urophilia, but you know, cigarette burns, erotic asphyxiation, extreme sadomasochism, maybe Possession AU if it helps you sleep at night, with pecs. not breasts. stop writing male lactation where the character has tits then it's just futa
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-26
Updated: 2017-12-29
Packaged: 2018-06-07 07:13:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 125,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6792826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Falgift/pseuds/Falgift
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You’re a disgusting child.” A voice that is unfamiliar in it's familiarity. </p><p>--------------------------------------------------------</p><p>There is something to said regarding a tale like this and an hourglass. Whether it's about inevitability or reversal or some other thing though, that's another matter. Either way, it's gratuitous porn designed to both titillate and upset and I sure am upset.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The World of the Blank Page

**Author's Note:**

> There's no porn in this chapter.

In a Sea Filled to the Brim with Noise; 

There was My Failure of a Self, A Dog and You 

 

In his dreams, he saw a world unlike anything he’s ever seen before. An expanse of white sand and sky; so black that you couldn’t even paint across them. So vast that even beginning to fill it would take the duration of even a God’s lifetime. And yet, so painfully cold that (in his pathetic, naked form), he feels a contradictory warmth.

Across this, there is a sea. It’s pitch black waves crash softly into the banks of sand, erasing the few footsteps tainting them and replacing it with cleanliness. It’s so dark, so deep. Even his words seem to get lost into it; even his thoughts. And which each rock of the waves, a gentle voice calls out to him. It’s tone is caressing; the gentle and subtly provocative voice of a lover.

There’s no mistaking it (there can be no mistake for this place is absent of any other sound; the air is as blank as the sky). Even so, he has to listen twice to what the voice is saying. The phrase and intonations are not quite right. They hold something hauntingly grotesque inside of them. Something terrible yet, maintaining that same erotic quality as if he were looking on the face of an Angel. Or Demon, if you consider them different. He doesn’t.

He kneels against the ground, irrevocably tainting the sand with his bare body, and feels the waves against his forehead. With the kind of disordered thinking one only has in their dreams, he plunges his face into the water and breathes deeply, taking in the words like oxygen.

“Does your stomach hurt? Does your skin itch? Do your tonsils burn? Are you burdened with the urge to pull at your skin and keep pulling until not even your original traces remain? Do you want to live with an amazing sensibility? Do you want to be happy? Do you know how your Snow White Prince is? Do you care? Is the Beast still residing within your fond fantasies? Unsteadily, you’re swaying. Drowning while breathing air. Soon, you and I will come to understand one another. Are you excited?” It asks with a degree of nonchalance (the pace is regular and the tone does not deviate).

Dimly, he wonders if this is what possession feels like or if he’s simply gone mad. He supposes it doesn’t matter either way.

He stutters into the sea, both excited and afraid for what comes next.

“Are all of those questions meant to be answered?” He asks, with the voice of a child.

His head feels heavy and sluggish; filled with white noise and the sounds of seagulls.

“They can all be answered with the same word, Alexander. You just have to let go. There’s no point holding back any longer when all that resistance brings you is more and more misfortune. For once, why not just accept what you want? What you need?” The voice is familiar in an unfamiliar way.

It reminds him of someone he isn’t sure he likes but with such a soothing tone (and a mind broken by war and some… other things), he finds himself listening regardless. He tips himself into the water.

“You know what you must do right?” It does not wait for a response. “The preparations have been made. Now, go forth and experience rapture.”

He stands up, letting black water drip off his naked body. Ah, it feels as if he’s been reborn.

 

***

 

He awakens with a quiet jolt (you wouldn’t notice unless you were searching for it) and stares up at the ceiling. It seems so unfamiliar. The tiles he has counted for year after year, have there always been so many cracks in them? With this realization, comes another. The obvious one. What he just had was nothing more than a Midsummer Night’s dream and there’s absolutely no need to get so disturbed by those voices.

But, even so, there must be something to them. These dreams have been occurring every night for months now; each time growing more and more beautiful and terrifying. At first, it was vibrant and unusual; a forest with trees that touched the skies and deer so large that they towered above him ( _“These are moose. They live in cold and dark places, darker and colder than your heart.”_ ). After that, an island surrounded by a sea of crystal blue where no matter how far he ran, he could never seem to see the entire area. Once or twice, he wanted to drown himself in that endless sea, to become one with it’s intense and careless beauty.  But this time, it was simple and, dare he say it, alarming. It gently, as a horse to a river, leads him to a conclusion.

No, no, that is not the right word. It’s not a conclusion but rather, a sense of urgency gone awry. As the days turned into weeks and the weeks into months of these dreams, there grew a feeling of dread that lingers when he’s alone and stares at him from the world beyond the mirror. It lurks in the darkened corners of his room and in the ceiling with too many cracks. It hides in the corner of the dungeon preaching peace and tolerance (it’s mouth says, “I’ll forget about this if you let me go now.” but it’s eyes scream “I’ll cut and cut until not even your true form remains”) and in the back of his mind, filling it with beautiful lies and unobtainable wishes.

 _“You know what must be done, don’t you? Forsake rationality. Surrender to your base impulses. You may not be an animal, my dear, gentle Prince but you are made of their flesh and their desires have been passed unto you by the Gods. There’s no point in avoiding it, Alexander.”_  

He stands up and dangles over his bedroom window. Vomit spills out over his lips and onto the slick ground below, becoming even more disgusting in the brief Autumn rain. He’s sure there’s a metaphor to be made of it but can’t think of one. 

He collapses on his bed (wiping his mouth on a sheet that reeks of rotting meat). 

***

He approaches the dungeon with apprehension and anticipation though, acknowledges only the former. He grimaces to himself. He should have come earlier. What kind of gentleman leaves any war prisoner, much less another Prince, rotting in some pit? The answer burns in the back of his throat.

It tastes like his father’s words.

“I’m going now. Isn’t that enough?” He draws the attention of the guards with such muttering.

As a pair of tin soldiers, the two of them stand rigidly and salute. The voice of his dreams tastes deceit and fear but it’s only just caution in those eyes. Or perhaps that’s the side of him that’s responsible for this mess in the first place.

“Crown Prince Xander!” The two of them say in unision.

God, hearing that same greeting builds bile in his throat. They hardly consider him a person. Instead, they stare at him as a ball jointed doll, dancing in accordance with his beloved father’s final wishes and words. There isn’t even room for ambiguity or to chastise himself for ‘mind reading’ - as a few of the more sensitive members of Corrin’s army might say. He’s heard the rumours. From the chattering of maidstaff, who clear his room twenty minutes off schedule either way, or even from Laslow simply telling him. It’s regrettable.

“Do you know why I’m here?” They don’t even ask. They ask Camilla.

“Is this a rhetorical question, Sir?” One of the two (interchangeable; that’s irony, isn’t it?) replies.

As scolding a dog, he clicks his tongue.

“I’m here to see High Prince Ryouma.” He stops for a moment, choking back on fantasies that drill into his head (he shouldn’t have thought of drilling…) as he tries to hide his true intentions. “Has he been treated well?”

“Define well.” Says the other (has a mouth on him then).

“Fed twice a day, given water three times and allowed to hold onto it for later. Beyond such simple things, have you allowed him to bathe? Has he been physically injured by guards or prisoners? If he has developed a medical condition, did you or are you currently dealing with it? If he had a previous injury, was it dealt with within three days? It’s not that difficult.” The last part is more a reminder to himself.

They don’t glance at one another, they don’t even move. Instead, they inch ever so slightly closer so that their shoulders touch. Obviously friends, possibly relatives. One is clearly slightly older. Two, four years? It’s fascinating really.

“He’s been regularly fed and watered.” The younger man replies.

“That’s not an answer.” Xander can feel his back tightening. “Have you or have you not taken care of him in a manner appropriate of an animal?”

The older of the two cringes.

“We tried, milord. Truly, we did. But he refused to bathe and hasn’t been eating unless forced. He’s also gotten into a few fights with the other prisoners and refused medical care beyond simple bandaging. It’s regrettable but there’s nothing we could have done.” The man’s words are like white noise; empty and dull.

Xander wordlessly brushes past them. The feeling of touching them, even through clothing, is enough to bring him to sneer.

  
  


He approaches the final portion of the dungeon on this particular cellblock (a floor dedicated solely to prisoners of war, particularly nobles and royalty caught within the crossfire). Yet, he finds himself stopping just short of entering. He stares at the cage. There seems to be something inherently wrong about giving the biggest cell to the Prince of Hoshido but he can not quite place his objection. I suppose that’s what happens when you grow up with nothing but distaste for those around you. Or something like that.

He peers through the bars. Slowly, he takes in the image of a downcast man (as if pictures were drugs) and feels something hardening. The once proud Prince lies huddled up in the corner of his filthy cell, wrapped in rags and covered in soot and dirt, blood and piss. Slowly, he raises his head to reveal a face covered in bruises. One on his eye, having swollen it black and shut, another on his lip, split with a poorly healing scab and another on his nose. It bleeds sluggishly as if cutting through a fog. And yet, despite all of this, as Xander’s eyes meet his, he notices something crimson in those deep brown eyes. Something he can only call ‘resolution’.

“Come to gloat?” Ryouma remarks with a tone that neither Xander nor his new companion can quite tell.

“No. Stand up.” He says in a tone that is not all too commanding. It’s far too gentle.

Ryouma shakes as he stands. His legs look as if they’re about to buckle beneath the immense weight of his remaining musculature (saying that implies he’s lost much which isn’t quite true). Or, perhaps more accurately, as if he were relearning how to walk. He stands at full height, only an inch shorter than Xander himself, and braces himself.

“What do you want from me?” He spits.

How undignified.

“I want you to be well.” Xander replies with something that isn’t truly a lie (however he may wish it to be). “It wasn’t my intent to have you treated in this manner.”

A scoff.

“So your intent was simply to estrange me from my country and men? Leave me wondering what would befall them? Glad we got that cleared up, Prince Xander.” The sarcastic, contemptuous tone is only growing more and more erotic.

“I simply want you to be treated as a Prince ought. But if you are truly that concerned, I’ll be happy to negotiate with you.”

“Forgive me; I was unaware that you were doing that only to spare me. How can I ever repay such kindness?”

Xander internally sneers at the formality. Must they insult one another with the veneer of nobility? Must even the bitter taste that lingers in the back of their throats?  

“Sarcasm is unbecoming for a man of your calibre, High Prince Ryouma.” He replies with an even deeper amount of formality since he has lost the ability to speak to people in a familiar way some years ago; though the exact date remains fuzzy.

That’s a lie.

“I’ve had enough.” Ryouma replies (Xander becomes intimately aware of how powerfully masculine his voice really is within this moment and he feels as if he could listen to it forever). “Tell me what’s become of my family and retainers or I won’t speak with you any longer.”

For a second, Xander scans the other man’s face, watching for the slightest bit of weakness. And yet, even with his face covered in sores, he stands completely tall and without even a hint of fear.

“We were unable to capture most of your servants and family.” The words come out so simply, so cold ( _Do Moose live in my words?_ ). “Anything more than that requires negotiations, as I said.”

Ryouma sits in the only corner of the room left untainted by bodily fluids (the one holding onto the mat he sleeps on). Xander makes a mental note to have him sent to a more appropriately furnished cell. Something with a warm bed, a proper bathroom and a set of keys that are within only his possession.

He takes a seat in front of Ryouma, kneeling on his folded legs.

“So, shall you begin or I?” Ryouma asks.

Xander clasps his hands.

“I’ll begin. Do you desire simply to know what happened or to see the other prisoners?”

“I want to see them. What kind of Prince would I be if I were to abandon them in such a situation?”

Xander muses over the romantic answer. Surely, it’s to keep up appearances. Although, if it’s true, then it makes it all the more delicious.

“And what if I were to offer you their freedom and your own? What would you say?” There is a smile in his voice, absent on his lips (or maybe, curiousity).

“It depends. Are you sincerely putting that offer on the table?” He can not place Ryouma’s voice.

It, like the the man himself, is an enigma. He’d like to believe that his partner’s hopeful but there’s a certain pragmatism that he’s come to expect of soldiers that makes him doubt it.

“Yes. But, I want something in return.”

“I thought so.” Ryouma replies. “I’m prepared to offer you a supply of our crops monthly to deal with the starvation crisis and donate some of our lands to your people to prevent the Rickets epidemic from spreading any further. Additionally, as Kamui has explained your situation to me, I won’t hold a grudge regarding this matter if we settle it now. I understand that--”

“Don’t refer to him as that. It’s not his real name.” Like glass, something inside of Xander shatters (for the first time in such a long time). “The terms will be mine and mine alone. I will release all captives of Hoshido if, and only if, you agree to merge our families through marriage.”

Satisfyingly, there is a stunned silence. Well, after an outburst like that, it’s not unexpected.

“You… want to marry Hinoka?” Ryouma stutters; completely missing the point. “That’s not possible. She’s already taken a husband. And Sakura’s still far too young so I simply can not agree with --”

“No, no. You misunderstand.” A wry smile. “I would not want to burden either of your young sisters or my own. No, instead, I would like to offer you something that doesn’t place such unpleasantness of politics on our families. You and I ought to become husband and wife.”

Ryouma shifts on the ground. He wrings his hands. He bites a corner of his lip. How charming. Had he really made him so anxious?

“Is there no other way to settle this?” He asks after quite some time.

Xander can feel something shifting; something in the folds of his brain. It crawls around in the places where he has suppressed things. It folds itself in the memory of his sexual awakening. The first time he understood ‘desire’. Still as fresh as summer’s rain, he recalls watching as some soldier sat in the bath house, completely naked. His body was heavily muscled and each part of it seemed to be covered in scars to the point where he resembled a tiger. His cock must have been seven inches when erect, at least, and he couldn’t take his eyes off it.

Xander recalls the situation perfectly. There had been a fight with Hoshido at the border that day, just a skirmish, and he and some other soldiers had returned covered in bruises and cuts. Blood seeped down from a mark on his cheek and a collection of deep, bluish bruises sat on his chest and stomach. Though just fourteen at the time, Xander found himself developing an erection at the sight. It pressed so tightly against his briefs that it felt painful.

That soldier called him close, pulling him into the water and towards his side, placing his arm around Xander’s shoulder. The man was intoxicated, Xander had realized quite quickly. His breath smelt of sweet liquor. His tongue tasted of it, as well. It was unbearably arousing.

...

 

God, he felt so disgusting. Like an animal. That night, no matter how hard he scrubbed his skin, it felt as if it itched; as if he would never get clean. Each time that creature climbs around in there, he is reminded of how filthy he gradually became (until his entire world has grown covered in a layer of filth).

“Am I really that unclean to you?” He asks.

The words are a product of those memories. Something that was not quite intended to be said out loud.

“What?” Ryouma replies.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say that. I was simply thinking of some other event.” Xander brushes it off with a gesture. “In any regard, if you deny my union, I fear that I won’t be able to release your companions.”

“But… why? Why is any of this necessary at all? I don’t understand.”

Of course he doesn’t. After all, Ryouma thinks of nothing more than his own selfish desires. His dedication towards his country and men? His amiable demeanour even before an obvious enemy? His gentleness towards Corrin? All a ruse. Clearly, he uses it to make himself seem better in the eyes of others. Or, perhaps more likely, he genuinely believes it and his cruelty (and he is cruel, you must understand) is actually a case of cognitive dissonance. If a casualty is on his side, it must be avenged. It is awful, the worst thing that could happen. But if that same thing, or something worse, happens to his opponents’, it’s justice. Somehow, that’s even more distasteful.

And someone as loathsome as that doesn’t desire a real answer. Or, actually, any answer. But Xander is a gentleman and he’ll answer as one.

“I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t act ignorant around me, High Prince Ryouma. You know why this is necessary. In fact, if anything, you ought to be thankful that you are getting off as lightly as this. A marriage on Nohrian terms is far better than the extermination of your entire family which is what my father personally desires. As I could never do something like that, I felt that this was the better solution for the both of us.” Xander responds (he means it, too).

“I assure you; I have no idea what you’re speaking of.” Ryouma’s not particularly convincing.

It fills Xander with a strange emotion. Not quite unfamiliar but not quite understandable, either. It makes him grip onto his knees, leaving imprints on the soft fabric and skin below. If his pants aren’t as thick as they are, he doesn’t doubt he’d be bleeding by now. Well, he may be bleeding. It’s not as if he’s in his right mind right now. He accepts that.

“Shut up.” It comes out much harsher than intended. “I don’t want to hear anything more from you on the subject. I want to negotiate my offer. Nothing else.”

And, as typical, more silence. Although this time, it feels somewhat laboured. Like a dog giving birth to an elephant if that elephant was fully sized at the time of the event. So, to say, it is actually extremely laboured and just a tad painful for all parties involved in either the action or the watching of it.

“I can’t marry you. I won’t.” Ryouma repeats himself.

It is incredibly annoying.

“I see. In that case, I’ll offer you something of an equal value to me. In exchange for you staying by my side and doing as I ask, I will release these prisoners. This will take place over a period of five weeks with each week resulting in another prisoner being released after. Additionally, you may opt out at any point in time if my demands are too stressful for you.” Xander explains.

There is the unspoken statement of “I’m not a monster.” that lies between them. But you know, only a monster would say that. So Xander doesn’t.

“What exactly does this entail? Will I be injured?”

“Possibly. I can not say for certain if you will or won’t be or if it will be consistent. But if it does turn physical, as I said, you can quit at any time. Although, I won’t release your fellow prisoners. Does this seem agreeable to you, High Prince Ryouma?”

He can feel himself growing hard just at the concept of Ryouma saying “Yes”.

“... Who are these prisoners?” Ryouma asks.

Ah, so he isn’t really as stupid as he looks.

“The Kitsune, Hinoka’s archer, Takumi’s Samurai, Yuugiri and finally, Corrin.”

Well, there’s a reason right there. It’s worth it if only to test Ryouma’s dedication to Corrin. Which, not a single doubt about it, will break. After all, they hardly know each other. It’s merely the idea of Corrin that he loves. Unlike Xander, who loves Corrin for the entirety of his being. But that’s beside the point.

“You’ll let Kamui go?” He sounds like a child while defacing Corrin like that.

Xander digs his nails even further in. Dark patches seep onto the fabric and onto his fingertips, tainting them irrevocably. It looks so filthy.

“In the event that the weeks are cleared, I will release the five of them, as stated.” His father always taught him to be very careful about one says and so, he makes himself clearer than ever before. “Do we have an agreement now?”

There is a brief, fleeting, look of doubt. It crosses over Ryouma’s dark brown eyes, past flecks of gold and green.

“If it’s for Kamui’s sake… I agree.”

God. That’s it. That’s what he was waiting for.

Xander tries to draw attention away from his crotch. He stands up, awkwardly hiding it.

“Thank you. I’ll have you transferred to a better cell within the next day or so.”

  
  
  


He steps past the guards, cape obscuring his figure. It billows behind him in the pitch darkness of the hallways indicating that it’s gotten late. Although, he doubts they had spoken for more than an hour and it was light when he had left. It’s hard to tell considering that Nohr has approximately six to seven hours of sunlight a day during the Summers.

“Crown Prince Xander!” That same greeting.

He turns to them, hiding his contempt beneath this typical tense expression.

“Have Prince Ryouma moved to one of the floors assigned for nobility. If he attempts to escape during the transfer, you may use reasonable force. In the event that he is permanently crippled or even killed during a struggle, I’ll see to it that you’ve both executed within the following day. In fact, change that first portion. I’d be better that he has the entirety of one floor and Prince Takumi, the floor directly below it. See to it that they don’t meet, will you?” He’ll cut them off before they follow up with yet more banality.

There is not enough time in the day to continue listening to false praises placed on his altar. Ah, one day (he fantasizes about this often), he will be King. And anyone that dares treat him with even a hint of political affability with me crushed beneath his heel as if they were no more than an insect. In the future that has dreamt of, he is treated with not fear but with respect. Or at least, honesty. He’ll be a better King than his father, he assures himself.

“Yes milord!” The two salute him.

“See to it that he’s bathed as well. There’s quite a deal of carpeting on that floor and I’d rather not have the maids handwash it again. They deserve a day without having to deal with such things. And bring a Troubadour with you. If he gets rowdy, have him Frozen.”

He departs before hearing the response for there’s nothing those two can say that will please him. It seems that, recently at least, there’s few things that truly please him. His desires have outgrown his status, he fears. No, that’s not quite right. As a Prince, nothing is truly out of his grasp. It is simply the circumstances of his life that take those fantasies and hold them where they can only be seen, never touched. Well, one day, that will change. The feeling is burnt onto his tonsils.

  
  
  


Xander falls into bed. He doesn’t bother to remove his clothing (ruining this set is hardly important considering the sheer volume of his wardrobe). The drowns himself in the comforter, huddling up beneath the downy softness and warmth. It is a gesture to comfort the self; so intensive that he nearly neglects a gentle presence beside him.

“Asleep already?” He’s always been the strange sort to ask questions of people who are unable to answer them. “Had I really been that demanding last night?”

Of course, there is no response. Even if there was, he’s far too tired to hear it. Immediately, he finds himself sinking off into sleep.

In his dreams, across a vast and dark ocean and an expanse of sand and sky so blank that you couldn’t even begin to paint it, he sees a path towards his fallen fantasies. With just a few traces of hesitation, he walks towards it.


	2. Going On in That Way, Defiling Everything

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now, you may be saying "Hey, you do this game is set during the Medieval period, right?" and I would say yes. Yes I do know. However, aesthetically, the medieval ages were goddamn ugly as sin. Everything was made of wood and the clothing wasn't hot at all. So, let's just pretend that the wide availability of magic has kickstarted the Nohrian culture boom and Industrial Revolution and they have trains and kinky thigh high boots and syringes and cigarettes and don't die of Cholera and know to wash their goddamn hands before shoving them in people. 
> 
> And on that line of pretending, let's all pretend that Garon isn't hideous and is, instead, a baller DILF like Sumeragi. Or Gunter, even. 
> 
> This chapter is three times as long and I hate it three times as much. If the quality's dropped, tell me in the comments and I'll try to fix it, lol.

In a Sea Filled to the Brim with Noise;  
There was My Failure of a Self, a Dog and You

 

“You’re a disgusting child.” A voice that is unfamiliar in its familiarity.

The words are like lacerations. They cut through delicate skin and lean muscle; tearing apart his ribcage and slurping down the bone marrow before settling up against his sensitive heart. They rip endlessly into his stomach, releasing acids that burn all that they touch. He feels as if he might vomit.

Where the words cut, hands follow. A palm places itself against his chest as if it were embracing his heartbeat. Fingertips caress the inside of his stomach, tracing the gentle musculature. They brush all the way down to the base of his thigh, squeezing it just slightly too roughly.

He grimaces.

“Your mother’s spirit has bestowed this weakness onto you. Her female ego has crawled inside and puppets your soul as if it were on strings.” The comments stab into his brain so that he feels as if he is no longer himself (he never had a self, that’s the trick here). “The only way we can fix it at this point is through constant interaction with the masculine.”

He is a lot of things but he is not stupid. He knows what those words mean and he knows exactly why they are a lie. But he is weak willed with the feeble skin and heart his mother gave him (skin like paper and a heart like glass so that even the slightest bit of roughness could shatter them so that they could never be rebuilt) and he fears the pain that will be brought back on him and his siblings in turn. Besides that, isn’t it the duty of a Prince to endure? How else does he expect to protect Kingdom and countrymen? By keeling over and offering his ass like an animal?

A hand settles against his crotch. Shamefully and immediately, he grows hard against the warmth of the palm. A moan passes over his lips.

“Are you truly incapable of controlling your urges?” Such a rigid sentence, devoid of any compassion or awareness of suffering.

He would give anything for that voice to take on even just a hint of emotion for him. Any kind is fine. Hatred, love, lust, even just the simple sadistic desire that he sees in the eyes of soldiers who’ve lost everything. Any of it is fine, preferable even, to the hideous apathy that greets him every night. It seems that these days, that’s all this man has for him. Has it always been this way?

No. Definitely not. He couldn’t bear the thought of that.

“You’ve noticed the piercings on the maids, haven’t you?” The way the question is phrased is so despicable but Xander can’t understand why. “Like animals, they’re incapable of controlling their sexual urges. So, people such as myself - and hopefully, you as well - with a much stronger force of will must control it for them. This is primarily done by marking them as our property so that other, more loathsome, people can not take them. After all, if you have to be owned by someone, wouldn’t you much prefer it if they were kind to you?”

Kindness is not goodness and gentleness is not kindness. He erased the words, replacing them with something he wanted to believe in.

His father is a kind man and a gentle ruler. He mouthed the words quietly, striking the others from his brain (he’ll say them later in his room, over and over again). His father spoke with a gentle, cordial voice and explained himself - and each little justification - as if speaking to a child. His father had the voice of silk and honey. It embraced Xander in a soft tone that never raised itself in anger and never says things that are unpleasant. At the very least, his father never said unpleasant things that he means. It remains that way today.

This contrasted with his hands. Rough and scarred from numerous battles; they squeezed tightly against the base of his cock and Xander felt as if he would scream from the pressure. Ragged nails dug into the flesh, smearing an ugly red liquid down the pale skin.

“My father is a kind and gentle man.” he repeated it as if it were a loop; a record melting from intense head, growing more discordant with every spin. It was a wonderful truth and a beautiful lie. There were happy memories too, you know, and tender touches and sometimes, it even felt good. But this made his skin itch, filled him with contempt and rebellion. There was something horrifically wrong with the acts they do in this room, something that reached down into the depths of depravity, even the Great Knight said so.

But the sound of the record was reliable if not truthful.

“As you’re clearly incapable of controlling yourself, I thought it best to mark you as mine. But know now that it brings me no pleasure, I merely fear that you’ll give yourself away to a man with a violent temperament if this persists. And as a show of good will, I’ll let you choose what you are marked with. To a degree. Anything visible is forbidden as I’d loathe for the people of this castle to become aware of your disability.”

“I’d be pleased with whatever you gave me, Father.” He innocently set a fire in the woods.

The kindling, underbrush and fallen pine needles, exploded into smoke and flame, engulfing the tallest trees within seconds. As a raging inferno, it swallowed up prayers and pleas, devouring them as fuel for it’s sadism, not stopping until there is nothing left to burn. Or until it has been suffocated.

“You’re still so childish.” A slap rang out. Xander’s cheek turned red with the imprint of his father’s palm.

He wished he could peel the skin off his face and replace it with something as shiny and white as alabaster. Something that could be easily dirtied but easily cleaned.

“I’m sorry.” The fire crawled towards the city blocks, killing and maiming everything that it touched, growing ugly and swollen like a louse with violence.

“I was afraid it might come to this.” His father sounded so disappointed. “It seems that the only way to make you truly understand the error of your ways is to show you the consequences of your actions. So, learn this lesson well Alexander; your sacrifices mean nothing.”

Xander looked up at the ceiling and imagined himself somewhere else; a place where the sun could not reach him.

 

***

 

He wakes up covered in filth with skin itching and blood beneath his fingernails. His left arm is a mess of bloody scratches, growing deeper they higher on his arm they are. He sneers at his own insecurities.

Hands clutch onto his shirt; woven around, under and into it so that the only way to remove them would be to remove the shirt itself. And although the owner is sleeping, the message is incredibly clear. He must have noticed that Xander was having one of those dreams last night and attempted to comfort him. He finds himself almost tearing up at the thought but wipes such clumsy feelings away.

“Did I wake you up?” He asks.

No response.

He smiles faintly and ruffles his companion’s hair. He removes his shirt seconds late, leaving the man clutching onto it like a source of security. Though, it may be more than a allegory.

Xander makes his way to the bathroom. He feels across countertops, grabbing onto a variety of white cloth like objects. Most of them are towels. He does, eventually, come across a set of bandages and wraps them around his left arm. After all, he can’t very well take this to Elise and he’d loathe to hear the gossip that the maids produce. It’s not as if he can go grab Felicia or Jakob either, all things considered. And while he can pray that this is the worst of the injuries he’ll sustain, he must also consider his tendencies. Taking those in mind, he’ll figures he ought to see Jakob after all.

 

***

 

“Fuck you!” Jakob’s voice is pulsating with venom; far much more than Xander had anticipated. It almost startles him. “Where is Lord Kamui?”

He digs his nails into his arm, slicing through the fresh bandages.

“That’s not his name so why are you calling him that?” He says in a weak voice.

He ought to be punished for that. After all, there are so many, so much more, important things to deal with than a simple case of mistaken identity. But it still lingers on the back of his tongue like maggots crawling on meat.

“Don’t you dare change the subject on me!”

Xander takes in the scene with something half cocked. It’s simply fascinating.

Jakob kneels, forced down on his knees, before him. A heavy iron collar and chain attach his neck to the wall so that he can crawl but neither stand nor walk. His face also shows signs of obvious abuse with multiple cigarette burns beneath his right eye and bruises that swell his face up so that he was nigh unrecognizable at first glance. And yet, he speaks with such defiance. Where Xander had seen resolution in Ryouma, he sees blind devotion and dissent in this man. A contempt that drips from the numerous wounds inflicted across this man’s body. He’s not nearly as hard as he had expected.

“I swear to God, if you’ve done anything to my Lord, I’ll break you! I will shatter every single part of you so that not even your wretched little family can recognize you! I’ll--”

“Shut up.” A voice commanding and fit for a King. It lacks even the weaknesses his father possesses with just a few of its own. “I have come offering you mercy and you still speak to me in this manner. I had thought that Corrin had trained you well but it seems that you’re actually just common garbage. Albeit, obedient garbage.”

“I need no mercy. Anything you will give to me would be better given to Lord Kamui.” Jakob replies. There was not even a breath before it.

“That won’t be necessary. I intend my offer to be to Corrin’s benefit as well as your own.” Xander explains. “In return for simply working as my butler, I will allow you no less than three hours out of each day to spend by Corrin’s side, tending to whatever desire he may have. Additionally, if you care for it, I’d be happy to let you see Flora and Felicia as well.”

The expression on Jakob’s face is readable but unexpected. Traces of rage distinctly remain but there is a type of cold calculation that goes on in the gears of his mind. The kind that Xander has seen only in the eyes of thieves, prostitutes and Leo. To think that a butler, and the child of a nobleman, can match it almost exactly… Well, that is interesting.

“I’m well aware of your sexual tendencies, Prince Xander so I’ll tell you now: If it’s for Kamui’s sake, I’ve no qualms about humouring them. But, I refuse anything that will impede my duties towards my liege. If any of my limbs are removed for the sake of your amusement, I request prosthetics. If my mind is permanently altered, I request that my functioning as a servant remain above all else. Whatever else you want to do is fine with me. Nothing else is necessary for my happiness.” His voice does not waver.

As a Pikeman, he stands (rather, sits) there steadfast, even in the face of what he knows is a great danger. And all for Corrin’s sake. Xander already looks at him with more respect then he gives to even Ryouma. However, there’s nothing fun in breaking someone (or in being broken by) with such a cynical outlook.

“I’m not interested in you in that manner. I simply require your healing services in regards to myself and your housekeeping skills in regards to a particular prisoner.” Xander explains.

Jakob snorts. It clearly hurts his throat but he did so regardless. So, he must either be a masochist or exceptionally dedicated to the process of degrading anyone who he feels stands against Corrin. Possibly both.

“It’s obviously not Lord Kamui so I’m going to assume it’s Prince Ryouma. You did seem awfully fascinated by him during your meetings. Then again, that could be chocked up to a fascination with Hoshidan cock.” What a crude sentiment.

Pleasantly crude, actually. After all, just yesterday, he did wish for a conversation with someone who would speak unabashedly. Seems he’ll be getting at least one of those desires today. He stifles a smile.

“You’re correct in your initial observation. It is, in fact, High Prince Ryouma.” Xander says. “Currently, there’s some Troubadour assigned to him but I feel that your hands would look better on his body. Besides, your skill in Staves is far superior to any of the other members of my staff. Only Felicia compares, honestly.”

“Flattery won’t get you anywhere with me. As soon as you defied my liege, I grew to loathe you.” Jakob hides nothing; letting his hatred drip like the fruit of ecstasy.

Xander finds himself growing aroused after all.

“I hadn’t intended to offend you with what I said. Regardless, do you accept my offer?” He asks.

“Without hesitation, Prince. Mentally disturbed sexual deviant, you may be but I’ve never seen you break your word.”

“I see. In that case; guards! Untie him and bring a vulnerary.” He turns back towards Jakob. “I expect you to be presentable and at Cell Floor 9 within the next two hours.”

 

 

 

Xander strokes against a smooth leather case, slowly unzipping it (there is some measure of nostalgia in the actions). Quietly, he lists off the equipment by name and purpose, embracing the cold steel with both hands. Chevian Forceps are the first (two sets of forceps with rounded triangular heads. To be used with nipples, navels and large surface piercings), Sponge Forceps (a pair with a circular head used nigh exclusively when working with the tongue), Ring Pliers in six and seven inch variants (to open and close rings) and a series of two inch long needles. He lingers over those the longest for they hold sentimental value.

Originally, they were supposed to mark Corrin (he had volunteered when his father suggested it for having anyone else’s hands on him would hurt) when his time came. But he supposes that will never come around.

No, pitifully, he refuses to give up hope that his brother will return to his senses. He takes the needles from the case and replaces them with something almost as beloved. The set that he had intended to use on his old retinue. He brushes his fingertips over the hollow metal, almost smiling. They’re added to the case along with a set of shiny leather gloves.

Now, the typical dilemma. The debate on whether or not anaesthetics are necessary. Well, that’s pointless. For piercings, most certainly not. But for the case of the other things he has planned, definitely. He replaces that absurd questions with a better one. Whether or not he cares if Ryouma is in pain. Most of him screams “No, no I don’t.” but the part of him that squirms like a dying insect has a brilliant idea.

 _“He claims such dedication towards Corrin.”_ It flails in his grey matter to form words. _“Shouldn’t you test that? If he can’t handle the pain, if he begs you, if he asks why, if he does anything but silently bear it, use the Witches’ Hammer. Otherwise, let him remain as he was.”_

He loads a syringe into the case and, for the Hell of it, a packet of it in it’s more plant based form. It might come in handy. Or not.

 

 

 

The key struggles inside of the lock, bending and popping as locking mechanisms crackle and snap. This particular door has always been rather troublesome, having something of a ritual attached to the opening of it. Not because of any actual mysticism (the great Nohrian Empire has long surpassed such ignorance) but rather because some runaway boy - afraid of pain and growing older - broke the lock some years ago and no one ever got around to fixing it. It is comparatively rare that a country with any royalty worth keeping around is invaded, anyway. And considering the man for whom this prison was initially designed to hold has already learnt submission and the values of being quiet, there really was no point.

Yet, with even a prisoner here, he feels no strong desire to fix it. In fact, it’s quite the opposite. Each time the thought so much as crosses his mind, something immature and stumbling shrieks out. It begs him to allow it to remain as it is.

Xander jilts the key left and--

“So, you’re the only one with the keys.” Jakob says. “What if I have to get in here for some reason? Do I go and wake you? I know how much you hate that.”

He glances aside in spite of knowing who it is. Well, there is a justification. There is a certain curiosity to be had regarding Jakob’s cleaned appearance.

The butler has returned to his usual attire: A waistcoat and shirt with armoured gloves, slick, tight leather pants and greaves that go slightly above his knees. His hair is tied back perfectly with not so much as a strand out of place. Everything is as expected. Almost, everything. A thin, white scar as delicate as the edge of a razor cuts his mouth off-center. It reaches from just slightly above his nose to just slightly below his bottom lip on the right side of his mouth. It cuts his face in a manner quite similar to that of the old man he works with. It is satisfying, to say the least.

Jakob has always been popular among the staff of this castle for his smooth, flawless skin and cold beauty. No, that’s not right. Jakob is popular with the staff, that’s true, but he is - much more importantly - popular with _Corrin_. Who seems to cherish the man for many of the same reasons in spite of many denouncements of such thoughts. However, their relationship is painfully obvious to Xander. It burns his tonsils.

“I have already considered it and have thus created a solution for it.” Xander jiggles the handle and presses against the door, releasing a yellow light. “You’re to sleep by Ryouma’s side, remaining locked in this room until I find it fit to release you. After all, I can’t have you attempting to make an escape.”

“It’s taken you far long enough.” Ryouma walks up to Xander, seemingly out of nowhere.

Despite Ryouma’s large size, he always has a habit of being able to hide in places he shouldn’t. This is the first thought. The second? What a brazen action that the High Prince has just done. Walking towards his captor without even a hint of fear in those deep, clear eyes. The third? That Ryouma isn’t wearing any clothing beyond the savage loincloths his people typically adorn themselves in.

“Why have you not gotten dressed? Did you not anticipate my arrival?” He asks, allowing Jakob to slip past him and into the apartment-esque space.

Ryouma scoffs; a certain sense of haughtiness returning to him. It fills Xander with an aching need to break him and rub it in his face.

“I didn’t get dressed because all of the clothes in the wardrobe are repulsive and I’d rather stand like this than wear them.” His tone is one of resolution and Xander can’t quite understand why.

Does he think that he’ll go soft on him? Does he believe that Xander is actually willing to listen to what a savage thinks? Well, actually, he’ll humour it for a bit. It’s not as if he has anything better to do today.

“Is there a particular reason you’ve chosen today of all days to be so smug? Has something occurred that I don’t know about or has the change of atmosphere given you a change in perspective?” Xander remarks.

He takes a step. The door slams behind him, locking shut with a click. It’s the magical properties of this castle that allow it to do such things.

Xander holds fast to his case, looking around for a chair. Or at least, appearing to. He knows full well what and where all of the furniture in this room are.

“If you had me placed somewhere so nice, I figured that you wanted to at least be friendly.” Ryouma has such a disgusting idealist nature about him. Now Xander sees where Corrin gets it from. It must be a curse on the family line.

He sits on an upholstered bench. The red velvet shares the same foul, rotten smell as his stomach. No one else seems to notice. He sets his leather case on his lap, grimacing as he hears a tool shake inside of it. He prays the needles have not been damaged in their frailty.

“You are incorrect but also correct in your observation.” Xander says, checking the integrity of his tools. All seems to be well, much unlike this current situation. “For those few weeks we spent together, although entrapping you was my intent all along, I found myself sympathizing with you somewhat. Your remarkably clear eyes and pure heart have already made their way into my permanent memory so that I feel as if I could remember them if I had forgotten all else. But I won’t forgive you. Not for what has been done to my people, not for what has been done to my father, not for stealing Corrin from me and certainly not for Laslow.”

Xander scratches his wrist through the fabric of his shirt. Suddenly, intimately, he develops awareness that this particular soliloquy sounds either like the last words of a depressed man or the ramblings of a lunatic. In spite of that, he feels tears beckoning at his eyes and the desire to beg for forgiveness lies in his heart. He hadn’t anticipated such feelings so early on. He must be much weaker than he initially thought.

But he is a Nohrian and he is a Prince. A strong will exists somewhere deep within him and he stays fast. Memories of the event, the day where he saw what the horrors of war held for his loved ones, nail him to his resolution.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Ryouma repeats the same, tired lie.

Xander resolves to wash it from his mouth with prayers onto whatever heathen Spirits those Hoshidans call Gods.

“No matter.” He stands up. “It’s time to begin our first act. After that, we will discuss the clothing situation. Is that acceptable?”

“Fine by me.” Ryouma replies.

There is a certain amount of mirth in that sentence. It seems that, against all odds, Xander is a much better actor than he first thought. Or rather, that Ryouma is. Or both. Either way, it seems that the nonsense speech in the name of peace that he gave off some months ago, the few weeks they spent as allies and that idealistic bullshit that his dear Corrin thinks is true, it’s left some kind of a mark. He hypothesizes that it causes Ryouma to believe that the situation is far less dire than it actually is. Something that he will take a perverted satisfaction in shattering.

But in himself, for he has quite the deal of self-awareness, he finds something else. There is almost an attachment towards Ryouma. In truth, he doesn’t really mind the concept of the two of them ending up wed. Actually, he had always anticipated that Ryouma would return his feelings at the end. Then again, Xander’s always had such stupid little fantasies.

He turns to Jakob (who already makes himself busy with the meagre amount of mess in the room).

“There is a room adjacent to this one. This is where Ryouma and I will be for the next one or so hours. Do not attempt to intervene.” He says.

The door slides open with his approaching footsteps. Certain areas of the castle, and Xander could not tell you how or why, have been magically enchanted to respond only to the presence of those in the royal family. His father used to joke - before all of this - that the doors were as obedient as their masters. Come to think of it, Leo always did have such trouble with them.

“You first.” He gestures inside.

The room holds nothing more than a table, two upholstered chairs, a chair with restraints for the neck, wrists and ankles and a lamp. The floor is without any wood or carpeting; it is as unpleasant as cobblestone and as cold as steel but with the charm of neither. The walls match this texture and aesthetic and the ceiling has cracks in it, revealing a dark wood. All in all, it is the most unpleasant room in the dungeon.

It holds the blood and screams of nobility inside of it. No, there is so much more to it than that. It holds pieces of things stolen by a deceivingly tender voice. Bits of souls, traces of words, fragments of shattered minds and broken bodies, Xander’s chastity, everything that once made him clean.

Ryouma stares around the room. He does not emote.

“You fully intend to torture me.” It’s a plain statement. “I can’t say I’m not disappointed. I wanted better for you. But Kamui told everyone that you were heavily indoctrinated as a child. That your own father had you abused and broken until you went insane. That’s an extremely sympathetic situation. So, I’ll make you a promise. No matter what happens to me or how often you try to deny my assistance, I will save you. For Kamui’s sake.”

“Sit down.” Xander remarks; he gestures to the chair affixed with restraints. “I’m in no mood for this nonsense.”

Ryouma obeys but his eyes reflect determination like light against a sword.

“Xander, he loves you. That’s why he can’t abandon you and that’s why I can not. At first, I didn’t understand how he could after all you had done but when we spent those weeks together, I came to understand you. Just a little bit. Or, if you won’t have that, I came to empathize with you.” It is the speech that a King holds when he knows that he is about to lose.

God, Xander feels like he’ll go insane if this continues. Ryouma is just the same as those soldiers he fought with as a boy. He cries passionately, preaching hope and “Not giving in!” and “This isn’t the end!” and “Living with an amazing sensibility!” (he doubts any of them knew what the word meant). But Xander knows what they do when the sun has gone down and no one is watching.

In the dissonant splendor of a hazy night, he came across a village of corpses. It was stained with the bodies of women and young men left naked and mutilated for their own soldiers to find once they returned. The sun slowly rose over the horizon, bathing their bodies in a magnificent orange and purple glow. Some among the pile of corpses shifted to greet it (for that’s what Hohisdans do, even if causes them yet more suffering in the end). Most of them, did not.

But beneath a corpse (a woman missing both breasts), something was alive. No, more than alive (adminst the pile of death, figures were writhing and squealing even so). Cognizant. He was beautiful. A young man with deep brown eyes and a body that resembled dented steel that slowly extended his hand to him, praying for salvation. As a child, Xander offered it. And with the usual betrayal to be expected from their kind, he bled for it. A knife was shoved against his throat, digging into one of the more minor veins. It was a bitter awakening and painfully erotic. Part of him almost wanted to die like this; disgustingly pleasured with precum dripping down his cock. Most of him did not.

When he was much younger, his father taught him the value of being quiet and still but it never did him any good. Instead, that old soldier (with a scar on his lip) taught him how to fight and hide like an animal. And there was salvation in that.

He slammed the back of his head into the man’s, really he was a boy, nose. His hair felt sticky and hot with blood. Something broke. He drew a knife from his thigh and tackled his opponent, pinning him to the ground. Their crotches smashed against each other as they wrestled for dominance. Secretly, he had wanted so terribly to be overpowered. His body to be broken and bloodied, his very being violated and stained. Or perhaps he just wanted someone to touch him with the slightest bit of tenderness and knew, knows, no other may it can be done.

It didn’t matter. It felt good.

He took a hand and shoved his fingers into the wound that was the boy’s nose. Something else snapped. The boy’s facce would never be quite the same. It was a mark that the Nohrian Empire, Xander, left on his skin. Proof that he was owned by someone. It gave Xander a thrill; a rush of pride.

“Mercy! Mercy!” The boy screamed, covering his face.

Xander stabbed him. A surface wound to incapacitate the boy. He didn’t do it again despite wanting it. It was wrong. At least, he thought so at the time.

A thick hand (scarred up with ragged nails and the distinct smell of viscera hanging around it) fondled his shoulders. He relaxed instantly under the feeling of being praised. That, too, felt good.

“I knew you could do it.” Tyger said (that was what the soldiers called him so that was his name as far as Xander was concerned). “Finish him off, would ya.”

He dropped the knife. Pitifully, it fell to the side, not even sticking into the ground. For some reason, he immediately felt ashamed of himself. He still doesn’t know why.

“I don’t want to kill him.” He choked on his words.

Tyger scoffed. His breath reeked, noxious with cigarettes and liquor.

“The Nohrian Empire has no need for mercy, boy. But if it pleases you to do so then I’ll show you the proper way.” He smiled. It was a genuine one but it wasn’t particularly attractive.

If Xander had described it that day, he would have said that it resembled a cat baring it’s fangs; a beast about to strike. Except, that particular beast had taken several blows to the face that resulted in several of its teeth being knocked out. Tyger must have been born with too many, anyway, since they always seemed so bunched up.

The soldier kneeled down before the boy. His pants fell seconds afterwards, coming off much easier than you would expect.

“Suck.”

Xander tastes iron. He must have bitten himself. Shaking his head in disgust, he feels around the table for the case; taking something like solace in the soft leather.

“Are you alright?” Ryouma asks, fully pushing him from the vision. “You seemed to space out for a moment.”

“I’m flattered that you’re so concerned about my well being.” He takes a cloth from his case and soaks it in a green liquid.

“What’s that?” Ryouma asks. Seems that Corrin inherited his inability to stay quiet from his older brother, too.

Xander feels thoroughly disgusted. Although, that might just be his normal state. It’s not as if he can tell anymore.

“It’s a type of plant for disinfecting skin. If you were to die due to an infection, I would never forgive myself.” He says for it is not quite a lie.

In actuality, it isn’t a lie at all. He, himself, finds it funny. Just a moment ago, he felt a burning rage - it reigned in the fires of Hell - towards Ryouma but it was quickly extinguished. Remnants of sorrow and traces of regret linger in the empty space without anything concrete to anchor them. Perhaps more than his body has been broken over the years. That is also quite funny.

“May I ask exactly what we’ll be doing that requires you to disinfect my skin?”

“Piercings.”

Xander looks towards the chair. The restraints are unfastened. Well, he doubts he’ll use it anyway. He takes his cloth and runs it against Ryouma’s chest. The upper portion is decently soft and has a certain ‘touch me’ quality to it that Xander has found only in the people of Hoshido. It’s remarkable how similar they are to cows. Charming, even.

He runs the disinfect down to Ryouma’s navel, growing erect from the sight of the taut muscles. They feel as hard as steel but their warmth is comparable only to that of the sun. The only way they could possibly be improved would be with the blossoming of bruises and the gentle caress of fists. Even so, that would only make them just so slightly better.

“So, is it a Nohrian tradition?” Ryouma asks. “Do you have some?”

Xander sighs. It’s as if he is explaining things to a child. Then again, isn’t that how everyone feels when explaining things to foreigners? Probably not.

“What does it symbolize?” It is such an innocent question that Xander feels as if he might vomit out his stomach and end it for the two of them right now.

“It’s to keep my wandering body away from the hands of men other than my father.” It’s such an honest reply that Xander takes himself aback with it.

Why on Earth did he answer like that? Is he truly so lonely that he’ll play along with such small talk? He already knows the answer. It feels good to have people understand your pain.

“I… don’t understand.” Ryouma replies.

“You wouldn’t.” And he knows that, too.

Xander slides his hands into leather gloves with a hint of amusement. He’s always wondered what it must feel like to be on the other side of this. It’s not that he’s new to piercings, you must understand, but it feels different practicing on someone who’s already been marked. The pleasure doesn’t feel comparable to what one must feel marking someone they love or will love. Finally, he gets to experience the kinds of things his father has. It’s both exciting and frightening and he can not determine which one takes precedence.

He carefully draws a two inch needle. The gauge is ten so the needle is rather thick and intimidating.

“I’ll be piercing your navel first. It’s a surface piercing so the rate of infection is fairly high with smaller sized needles. That’s why this one is so large.” In the desperation to be found as a person who is useful beyond warfare, he finds himself overcompensating with words in the situation. “Are you ready to begin?”

Ryouma nods. It’s not as if Xander really needed that approval.

He grabs the Chevian Forceps (the larger of the two) and uses them to hold the skin just above Ryouma’s navel. The grip turns the skin around it pink. It’s not appealing.

“You know, typically, people lie down while receiving piercings.” Xander mentions. “It’s much more difficult this way. So, if I move you to a flat surface, will you struggle too much?”

“No. I won’t struggle at all.” Ryouma replies.

Xander hates his honesty.

He places the tools back in the case. Ryouma stands up and lies down on the table. It’s just barely long enough to fit his body. Thankfully, as Xander is aware of the immense weight of Hoshidans, the table is rather sturdy. Otherwise, he might have to change his plans entirely and he is not a man that improvises well.

The flesh readily accepts the needle. There is no blood. Well, of course not. The only reason there was any present during his own session was because he put up a fuss. Xander wedges a titanium bar into the area and seals it off with a spell.

“You didn’t make a sound.” Xander says, unable to hide his disappointment.

It’s not like anyone would notice, anyway.

“It’s a custom in Hoshido to tattoo young men once they come of age. The pain of this can not compare to that.” Ryouma brags.

At least, it sounds like bragging to Xander. “I’m stronger than you.” It says, writhing in him. “I don’t cry when my father stains me.”

“Don’t speak so smugly, High Prince Ryouma.” He says. “I intend to do much worse to you than this. I simply want to place a claim on the ownership of your body before I damage it. By the time I’m finished, you’ll hate these markings.”

“Do you hate yours?”

“I didn’t ask to be psychoanalyzed.”

“Fine. Then I shall change the subject.” So he is aware of the most base of social interactions, then. “You Nohrians are far more technologically advanced than initially expected. Hollow needles, the understanding of infections and the need for sterile tools, skin and environments were something we thought you lacked. Has your superior magic allowed you to progress this quickly?”

Xander laughs. It is as harsh and cold as a dead man’s blood.

“I couldn’t tell you what’s responsible for our advances. But I can tell you that your overreliance on your own magics shall be your downfall. Innovation is created when the people are in need. As the people needed vaccines, syringes were born. It just so happens that they also make these piercings go much smoother. And with our distinct lack of healing magics, it quickly became apparent that there were serious holes in our medical sciences. Through what magic we did have, we quickly became able to understand exactly what resulted in deadly infections and how to better prevent them.”

Such small talk, such lengthy explanations, they’re actually soothing to him. And he presumes to Ryouma, too, as the man keeps inviting them.

“I’ll do your chest now.” Xander says.

He keeps the clamps in his hands, recalling his own session once more.

He starts with the left for some arbitrary reason, pressing down hard on them. A repeat of the last experience. The needle penetrates. Ryouma remains quiet and still. It is only slightly sensual. The same on the other side. He won’t be needing this Witches’ Hammer after all. And it is annoying.

“Please remove your underwear so I may disinfect your genitalia.” Xander requests.

Ryouma does as if asked and Xander wants to scream. He takes another ten gauge needle.

“This will be painful. You know that, right? The head of the penis is extremely sensitive and this piercing’s going to go straight through it and into your urethra.” He says.

“I don’t care.”

It’s over in a second. Ryouma shudders but he does not scream. The only sign that it was out of pain at all is a laboured breath through gritted teeth and even that is over far too quickly. Perhaps Xander underestimated his strength. He expected a flinch at the very least. But he remains obedient, sympathetic and most importantly, dedicated towards Corrin’s ideals.

“I… I need to take a nap.” Xander says, packing up his case.

“Oh? Are we finished already?” Those words only serve to make the experience even more painful.

He doesn’t reply, walking through both doors as if in a daze. His brain feels fuzzy; a sea of noise.

“Jakob, see to it that High Prince Ryouma has some clothing suitable for people of his country. I have to take a nap.” He finds himself repeating the phrase as if clinging onto it.

Maybe that’s what happens when your shun attachments to things and people; you latch onto words and phrases.

Or maybe, just maybe, his worldview is simply an exceptionally fragile thing. It is made up of betrayal, of fear, of anguish and regret. So when someone holds steadfast to their beliefs (you know, he isn’t sure he wanted to this anyway, you understand, he has a sensitive heart and delicate skin - his father tells him so and those words still like nettles), it shatters that view.

He doesn’t know what he had expected and he doesn’t know what wants. No, that’s incorrect. Again. He wants revenge. He wants Corrin. Those two things are separate from one another and can not be reconciled. Corrin’s love hinges on him freeing that bastard and all of his filthy people; on Xander forgiving. But he needs so strongly to be loved by him. A need that has been established ever since he was a young, pining child. And if Corrin loves him so dearly that he’ll tell his beloved brother (so much more beloved than him, Xander realizes) to not struggle, to not fight at all, then it’s not impossible. It’s fine, everything is fine.

He collapses onto bed, pulls the comforter over his eyes. The smell is unplaceable.

 

***

The sky was beautiful that day. Blue, cloudless, endless; the first time in years where all three of those qualities existed in the same space. Yet, paradoxically, a Spring rain poured down from unseen clouds. He extended his hand out to catch some of those raindrops. They were warm against his hand. Familiar. Safe. Almost forgiving.

“It’s raining!” The voice was mature but with the nicer qualities of a child.

It was cheerful, light, somehow innocent. Above all that, it was so unbearably hopeful that it brought tears to his eyes. He hid them in the rain.

“I’m aware.” He had struggled to make his tone sound anything other than scolding. But it seemed that it was simply the way his voice had developed.

He felt self conscious about it. It was yet another obstacle on his quest of loving and being loved in return. The figure beside him seemed unconcerned about it, though. Then again, he usually did.

“Sorry! I was just shocked! It hasn’t been this nice is so long! Shouldn’t we do something fun as celebration?”

“There’s work to be done.” Xander replied (for there wasn’t any way he could possibly emotionally connect with someone else).

So, as children do, he shoves people and feelings away with a stern expression and an apathetic tone. And usually, it worked.

But not on him. His sole response to such things? Another smile. He closed his eyes, tilted his head ever so slightly to the right with choppy hair perfectly framing the expression. Xander fell in love, in that moment, with the blue sky and the distant rain. It reminded him of everything he could never have but clung on to. No, it reminded him of something so much better. Taking the longing that he held onto in his childhood and his adolescent fears and replacing them with something that desperately wanted to believe. It was shocking. How the blind, idealistic tone of young love gave way so easily to a sense of belonging, purpose and hope in his uncertain life. He felt as if there was still the possibility for him, for the two of them, to ascertain a future and live happily in it.

It was enthralling. It was beautiful. It was his ephemeral and unobtainable dream. As fabulously cruel and abhorrent as the light of the sun. And like that sun, it lay in the grasp of Ryouma (who had so diligently stolen away even the selfishness of first love). But in the scent of the Spring rain and within that smile, his hopes remain.

***

Xander paces in front of Corrin’s bedroom (it served well as a cage once before and it will serve just fine once more). No, it will serve better than fine. This time it will be safer, rougher. There will be no; no disobedient maids and nosy old men attempting to live vicariously within Corrin’s intense and sorrowful soul. His beloved prisoner will remain alone and safe inside his cage. And as the weeks turn to months and the months into years, it will become a miniature paradise.

Camilla’s begun work on adding a garden to it. She intends to fill it with grotesquely beautiful night blooming flowers so that Corrin may never see the sun again and Leo is already compiling some appropriate books (no spells allowed) to create a library. Like the prisoner, the prison will one day become perfect.

Xander raps on the door with the back of his hand. Three times, to be exact. It’s an interesting little quirk of his. So says Laslow, at least.

“Go away!” Corrin’s voice rings out. It wavers beautifully; shaking, as a leaf in a thunderstorm.

He must be crying. That is, somehow, even more magnificent than those dreams. Xander places a finger against his lips, trying to subdue his fascination before he speaks. He fears it might drive Corrin even farther away.

“That’s not what I want.” He explains (that’s a lie and every piece of him that shrieks and wriggles knows it well). “I just want to speak with you, Corrin. It’s been so long.”

He didn’t mean for that last part to sound so wistful.

“The only thing I’m willing to talk about is what you’ve done with my family!”

Hos hostility is alarming and immature. Xander has half a mind to come in there regardless of his wishes and slap him for it. But he is not his father and he wouldn’t want to be so instead, he sighs to himself. This is his own fault, anyway. He had neglected Corrin and the others so early on in their lives, favouring to focus on his studies and his father’s wishes. As Corrin has Hoshidan blood inside of him, he lacks the strength of will and emotional maturity that allowed Leo and Camilla to deal with his roughness. It’s regrettable.

“We’re your family, Corrin. Don’t say such things.” He replies.

“Family don’t keep other family members locked in cages! Family doesn’t torture other members of their family! Most certainly, family does not keep a man away from his wife!” Corrin cries as he speaks.

The words dance on his skin like insects. Everywhere that they touch grows black and red with bites, swollen with pus and blood. He scratches up and down on his arms. They break. They bleed. They turn into thin lines of blood against pale white skin.

“What do you mean by wife? I heard nothing about this.” His voice is accusatory. But of what and directed to whom, he is unsure.

“I eloped with Hinoka. She… she clung onto me and wouldn’t let go when we first met. She just cried so hard. I really wanted to be held like that again. Like I was the only person that mattered, I guess. And since we aren’t really brother and sister, I thought that--”

Xander cuts him off with a laugh as vast and as empty as the night sky. No, laugh implies he only does it once. In fact, it continues on for minutes. Something broken has given way and he releases the tatters the only way he thinks he can. If he doesn’t laugh, he supposes, he’ll cry.

“You could have asked Camilla to hold you if you were so desperate for affection.” The words ‘or me’ are left unsaid.

“Don’t change the subject!” Corrin shouts.

“Princess Hinoka is fine. She is not even within our custody.” Xander forces himself to reply like that.

Really, he wants to go in there and make love to his brother until he understands the full force of his feelings.

“What about the rest of my family?”

Xander finds himself bleeding. It soaks into the white of his shirt. It’s ruined.

“Stop saying that! We **are** your family. We've loved you and placed you above all else! Cherished you like nothing and no one that came before! So why are you throwing us away for a group of people who you admit aren’t even related to you? Who don’t even have the benefit of knowing you? Are we really that filthy to you? That you'd rather run away with these people, who can't even begin to understand you? Or are you simply attempting to punish me for neglecting you? Come on, tell me what is it?!" 

“That’s not what I meant.” He innocently sets a fire with his words.

But once a fire has been set, it keeps going until there is nothing left to burn. Like a brand, the words have been engraved onto Xander’s skull.

“I don't have time to deal with you right now. Especially if you're so adamant on ignoring my questions.” Xander says. “I’ll have Camilla come and try to talk some sense into you.”

His tonsils burn with an amazing sensibility.

***

“It wasn’t painful, was it?” Guilt. Possibly remorse.

His father typically got that way after their ‘sessions’. He would lavish affection and praise unto him, expressing the most deep of regrets. There would probably be begging. Certainly, there would be pleasurable things such as this. And then (after a cooldown period that’s never lasted longer than three week), when his father was angry at him again or missed his mother, it would happen again. Xander was unsure, still is, if it was a true manifestation of his father’s slowly declining mental state - a brief moment of clarity after each act - or a mask put on to keep Xander obedient. Or, perhaps existing as a bridge between, it was both to deal with mounting feelings of shame and keep Xander from leaving. He wants to tell his father that it’s not as if he could just disappear anyway but wouldn’t that take away his sole refuge from pain?

“I got used to it quickly.” His voice is barely above a whisper.

He didn’t know why he was being so quiet. No one could hear them.

“So it was then. I’ll make it up to you.” Those words were an omen of something far worse than pain.

Something that had reduced Xander to a senseless lump of flesh. It’s possible, as his father had said on a night when he was drunk and thought he wasn’t listening, he had always existed in such viscerality. Maybe he had always lived pitifully as a mass of filth and tight muscles; unable to understand anything beyond the most base of pleasures.

He didn’t know and that was more frightening than anything else that could happen.

“I’ll be gentle.” The words were like velvet; deep, masculine and assuring. Something that Xander could fixate on.

He stared up at the ceiling. Back then, there were only a few cracks in it. It was made of wood. The kind that looks as if there are trapped souls inside of them; images like screaming faces. He wished he could have been among them.

“You look like your mother.”

The words were directed at him, he understood, but they seemed disconnected. It was as if there was a barrier between his father’s body and his own. No, more than that. It felt as if he wasn’t inside his body but looking in on it as an observer. That’s not it either. This was his body. He definitely lived in it and he certainly knew what’s happening to it. He could feel it, if nothing else. But what’s happening didn’t feel as if it’s happening to him. It felt like a dream.

He spread his legs without prompting. Hands caressed the white of his exposed thighs, fondling where pale pink scars were left. Xander focused intently on the ceiling, zeroing in on the faces. He’d name them all before he left that place.

“I forgot to bring enough Lilin with me. It might hurt.”

He always hated that stuff. The slimy oil that the plant produced may have numb the pain but it was difficult to clean and would make his head feel black and uncertain afterwards. That was probably his father’s intent back then, now that he thinks on it.

“That’s fine.” It wasn’t of course but who was Xander to stand up for himself? He deserved what he got, anyway.

The face directly above him looked like a Margaret. He didn’t know why. She simply did. The one next to her, well, he would have liked to imagine that they’re a couple. Barely married a month before they souls were trapped together. How lovely it would be to be able to suffer with the one you love so much. He figured they’re both women as well by their features. So her name, he thought it ought to be --

The first thrust took him by surprise. It was lukewarm and slippery but set his body afire with arousal as soon as it entered. The next one slide in much easier and soon enough, his father was pounding away without any care for how Xander felt. He braced himself against the headboard with both arms.

It didn’t help.

“Father!” A cry of pleasure and wore the skin of alarm.

It must have been pleasure, he thinks. After all, he rocked his hips back into the thrusts, grabbed tightly onto his father for support. The embrace felt comforting in its wrongness; like salvation. Would a man who wasn’t enjoying himself do that?

His father pressed his face into the nape of Xander’s neck, kissing everywhere that his lips met, biting everywhere that he kissed. More markings appeared on Xander’s skin and he wondered if these would scar as well. Some were definitely bleeding.

“You’re so much better than your mother ever was. Tighter. And she would never let me do this to her.”

As a starving man, Xander hungered after those compliments. They filled him to the brim with a sense of superiority; the desire to be considered praiseworthy. It was pathetic but he wanted to hear something like that again.

He settled down on the base of his father’s cock before slamming down of his own violation. The ceiling beckoned, screaming of pain. So he screamed louder than it; drowning out the nonsense with pleasured moans and the verbalized desire to feel something even more intense. Hands wrapped around his waist, squeezing so tightly that red marks were left where they were. He sat upwards on his father’s cock and bounced from there in a rhythmic motion, milking the length of it. He felt like a child again, jumping on his father’s knee, and wanted to vomit.

He clamped down on his father’s shoulders, dug in his fingernails til the skin turned angry and red. He’d be punished for it later, he already knew. He relished that pain as well.

“Please, allow me to orgasm.” He said; sickeningly clinical.

“You have my permission.” A laugh. Certainly, it was mocking him for his failure.

As soon as the words were uttered, Xander came.

He was no longer cognizant.

***

He forces the key to the left, slamming his hands against the door handle. With the force of a soldier, he forces his way inside the door. Doesn’t that phrase remind you of something?

“Ryouma.” He does not shout, conveying his mental state in tone of voice alone.

It is the timbre of a man no longer willing to be agreeable. One who has spent years, his entire life, as an amiable and obedient young man; willing to do anything that anyone asks of him just for a moment of physical contact. He asphyxiates with the memory of fingertips that linger on his skin (pale white scars that cling to his thighs and ass, punctures on his arms).

As a fool, Ryouma approaches him.

“Are you al--” He starts.

Xander grabs him by the throat, the bag he was carrying (he doesn’t remember grabbing a bag) falling to the ground.

“Do you think me a toy, Ryouma? A doll to with as you so please?” It wasn’t really directed at Ryouma but he’ll feel the punishment anyway. “I simply won’t stand for that.”

“What are you talking about?” His captive asks through gritted teeth.

Xander squeezes tighter, mostly for the hell of it, his hands not truly making their way across Ryouma’s throat. He feels his pants straining with an erection; the seduce allure of asphyxia suffocating with the rest of his broken sexuality. The situation is laughable.

“Were you not satisfied with taking my lovers from me? Is the hatred you feel for me so great that you must steal my brother as well?” A laugh that resounds with the sound of buzzing in his ears. “Well, engrave this onto your marrow, High Prince: His body may belong to your whore of a sister but heart and soul belong to me! I’ve loved him so much that I cried when I first laid eyes on him for I was aghast of his beauty. I simply can’t let you just take him from me!”

“Calm down.” It’s another demand. Xander sure has had his fill of those.

He squeezes as tightly as he can. He’s allowed to do that. He’s the fucking Prince. All that the darkness touches is his sovereignty and this room is pitch black. So, he can do what he pleases to Ryouma. Besides, the man’s such a beast that Xander doubts it even hurts him.

“I’d reconsider making demands of me, High prince. You are still my captive and for the time being, I am still your Master. Now, be quiet and accept your punishment in accordance with our agreement.” He takes a breath. Rambling like a lunatic isn’t becoming of a man of his status. “I will scar you so that you are never clean again.”

His own biases slip in there, creeping silently behind his words. If he could slap himself for that right now, he would.

“I see.”

  
It’s an apathetic tone devoid of even the barest hint of annoyance. Is Ryouma truly so proud as to consider him worth just that? Xander would sneer if his face wasn’t frozen in this expression.

The bag on the ground reeks. It wafts rotten meat up to him and the smell grows only stronger while he holds it.

The chamber opens as he turns to face it, revealing a room wider than before. Xander doesn’t bother to dwell on the reason why (it distracts from the meat). In the dim, lonely space, a cot and a bathtub have joined. The former, laid out in some clean corner of the room and affixed with restraints and the latter, already full of water. There is a small room off, barely a foot wide, with a squatting toilet and no door. It’ll make his guest feel more at home, he supposes.

“I’ll have to order more furniture from Cheve.” Xander says more to himself than to his captive.

Is the small talk soothing now?

“Has all this been waiting for me?” Ryouma asks.

“Don’t flatter yourself. Only slight modifications were made for you and several of the more elaborate devices were removed. This originally housed someone else.” Xander replies.

He empties the messenger bag out onto the table. It reveals a large collection of bloodied tools, the paint wearing off them but still working fine. They shine in the faint light, reflecting it back as the moon reflects the sun. He throws a spool of barbed wire onto the pile.

“This is today’s equipment.” He gestures to the stack. “Shall I introduce you? I doubt there’s anything this gruesome in Hoshido.”

Ryouma sits on an upholstered chair; legs crossed and head held upwards. Despite being shorter than Xander and, now, much lower to the ground, it feels as if he’s looking down on him. God, that’s revolting as well. It leaves a nasty taste on the tip of his tongue.

“You’d be surprised.” He replies. “But I assume out tactics for torture are very different so I won’t mind seeing yours.”

Xander gestures to a collection of needles. They’re solid with a much rougher set of edges on them. Certainly not medical grade.

“I wanted to try acupuncture on you. I had actually planned to do it at the same time as your piercings but I felt ensnared with your careless beauty. So, regrettably, the opportunity has been lost. But I suppose it might have damaged my forceps. Steel does rust, you know.” He says. “Besides, there are some pleasant things to do with pre-installed rings. Weights come immediately to mind but it will make your bondage so much more secure if I can anchor it to your very body.”

“There’s no need to tie me. I have no intentions of escaping so long as even one of my men remains in your custody.”

“It’s not about escaping. It’s about punishment.”

“I understand.”

Xander lifts the spool, grasping where the wire begins. It slices his fingertips, ruining the metal with his ugly, ugly blood. He feels almost guilty for subjecting the High Prince’s radiance to it. Then again, isn’t it only fitting?

“Get against the wall.” He says.

Ryouma presses his magnificent body against it. It’s a dented sheet of iron pressed against roughly cut stones and beautiful in it’s very own way. Xander wants to embrace it the way it is now, take that marvelously thick cock itself of himself and be treated like the whore he was born to be. But, thanks to his father’s training, he resists the urge with just a bit of effort.

He wraps the wiring tightly around Ryouma’s wrist. It punctures. They bleed. It’s a bright, fresh crimson that smells of copper in the rain. He attaches it to a hook just above his partner’s head; making sure that it is slack enough to allow Ryouma to easily touch the ground but not so slack that it would leave him able to sit or walk.

He trails the wire down, wrapping it slowly around Ryouma’s body with the fondness of a man wrapping his lover in silk. Everywhere that it touches, it cuts. He localizes on Ryouma’s breasts, wrapping, beneath and between them.

“I’ve heard that this type of tie was invented in Hoshido under the name Shinju. Is this true?” Xander returns to his equipment, grabbing a few needles.

“I can not say if we invented it or not but we don’t call it Shinju. We call it Ushiro Takate Kote.” Ryouma replies. His voice is so smug. And it pisses him off.

The first needle cuts through Ryouma’s breast like a hot knife through butter. It rips through skin and muscle, sinking to the hilt in the yellow fat of his chest. Blood swells up like gas through a plugged oil well. It has a lovely colouration, so much nicer than Xander’s own. It tastes so much sweeter as well.

“It’s not unpleasant.” He looks up at Ryouma’s face. The expression on it is as breathtaking as the sun. He grimaces; his jaw locked and his eyes squeezed shut. Such a sharp contrast to their last session.

The next two needles puncture Ryouma’s left areola and the tissue of his right breast. Another is left in his right areola and a collection in the shape of a small heart are forced into the roughness of his abdomen. Unfortunately, it is far more difficult to place them there so they loiter just barely inside the muscle. Ryouma has such little fat content on his body that it’s difficult to find anywhere that’s both easy to mark and painful. No, that’s not quite right. There is one other place where fat remains universal. The face.

Xander shoves a needle through Ryouma’s left cheek. Blood dribbles down and off onto the ground, acting like lubricant. He pistons the needle in and out of the hole as if fucking it.

“Are you getting off to this?” Ryouma accuses, abruptly jilting him from his fantasies.

The creature made of white noise stirs up Xander’s brain; laughing with a reasonable sociability.

 _“He’s mocking us.”_ It says. _“He knows that you suffer and mocks you for it.”_

“I don’t understand what you mean.” Xander rips the thoughts from his brain (they lie bare on the table now, grinning from ear to ear).

“This isn’t for Kamui at all. This is because you're a sadist.” And those thoughts grin even wider because they were right.

“Just because I find it provocative doesn’t meant it isn’t for Corrin’s sake.” He sneers at his own flimsy justification.

"If you were really doing what Kamui wanted then this wouldn't be happening at all. Since you're clearly insane, you'd just have me executed. The real reason I am alive is because you want to sleep with me, isn't it?" He snaps like a dog at a dangling piece of meat.

And it only serves to make Xander harder. The crotch of his pants grow slightly damp.

“You aren’t even trying to hide it!” Ryouma spits.

“Stop.” He pleads. It’s as weak and feeble-minded as the rest of him. Unable to say no or begin to change its fate. It’s regrettable.

“You’ve no right to ask me to stop when you’re doing this to me out of your own perverted sense of pleasure!”

A black tentacle shoves its way into Xander’s mouth, stroking everything it touches on the way down. It swims around in his stomach acid, corrupting all that it touches, before nestling at the bottom of his intestines.  _“You’re a disgusting child.”_ It says in voice that is familiar in its unfamiliarity.

Xander snatches a handful of needles and punches into Ryouma, letting them stick where they may. He steals a syringe off the table, sloshing around the white sloppy liquid inside.

“Do you know what this is, High Prince Ryouma?” Xander removes the cap.

“Do you always change the subject when you can’t cope with things? Is that your way with coping with the fact that you’re an awful person?” Ryouma answers a question with a question. That is incredibly impolite.

But also, remarkably amusing. Just a few days ago, Ryouma sat there, preaching that no matter what happened, he would try to save him. Isn’t it disgusting how quickly people change their ways? Xander supposes that this is the way of the world. People destroy principles, break oaths and hearts, as soon as things get so much as tiresome. He wants to vomit but he hasn’t eaten today so, like most things in his life, it won’t do him any good.

“I’ll assume not then.” He places the syringe against the crook of Ryouma’s elbow. “It is the Witches’ Hammer. A type of addictive, plant based drug that causes the user to respond sexually to pain. Of course, there is no such thing as free even in nature, so it comes with a rather long list of side effects. Algolagnia and an increase in the sensitivity of sexual organs and breasts are the most common and nearly every long term user eventually gets that way but I’ve heard it can also cause Urolagnia, the development of sexual fetishism, increased clitoral growth in women and incites lactation in men. Nature truly is fascinating to create something like this.”

“Don’t you dare inject me with that filth!” Ryouma snarls.

One more, he makes a demand from a position of inferiority. It’s what you would expect from a much younger Prince or a low ranking nobleman’s son. Men of Ryouma’s calibre are supposed to have learnt the value of quiet stillness and unthinking compliance. Then again, considering the state of Hoshido, Xander wouldn’t be surprised if King Sumeragi went soft on his son. How distasteful.

“I assure you, High Prince Ryouma, the experience is very pleasant once you get used to it.” He rolls up his sleeve, revealing a dark bruise throbbing with blood ( _“Insects live in there.”_ He shivers).

“My God, did you do that to yourself?” Pity or hatred? Pity, probably. That might be worse.

“This bruise? Yes.”

“It’s clearly infected!”

Xander leaves his finger on the stopper. Concern and praise are similar, right? Both bring him that same warm feeling, the sensation of being considered worthy of affection. Isn’t something like that what he’s been looking for all along? Not even Corrin spoke this way to him. He’d stare at the bruises and the filthy, pulsating sores and would look at him with a pity that made Xander feels as if he truly was nothing more than a senseless lump of flesh. Corrin could never cope with unpleasant things. But Ryouma can cope. He looks at him with such an intense compassion that it almost makes Xander dizzy.

“I hadn’t noticed.” He replies.

An indescribable flash of emotion passes over Ryouma. Xander assumes pity again but that doesn’t seem quite right. He shoves the stopper down and Ryouma jolts (like a mare in heat). He rubs the area of injection with two fingers (his boxers are beginning to get noticeably wet).

“It will take about five minutes for the drug to take effect. Unfortunately, I am on a rather strict schedule so you we won’t be able to take a break until then.” He says.

Xander takes a set of brass knuckles from the table, sliding them on slowly. Blunt force trauma always was one of his favourite parts of an early torture session. The patterns left behind by fists can not be matched by anything less than the finest of artists. Besides that, he’s always found something erotic about bruises on a man’s stomach.

“Brace yourself.”

Ryouma spreads his legs in a defensive stance, digging his bare feet onto the stone ground. It doesn’t help. A sharp punch slams against his lower stomach. It turns the skin around in red in an instant. Ryouma chokes.

“I hit harder than you anticipated, right?” Xander yanks the needle from Ryouma’s cheek and throws it to the ground. It’s ruining the aesthetic.

“Yes.” Ryouma’s face turns pink with shame. The thing inside Xander tells him it’s shame, anyway.

He jabs into the heart of needles, digging them in a centimeter further. Ryouma bucks beneath the pressure, writhing in pain. The wires rend flesh from his wrists; blood streaks down like an Autumn rain. Xander fondles his partner’s erect cock, caressing it as if this was simple foreplay. He runs a fingertip over the shaft, smearing precum around the rest of the head.

“You have a choice here. We can continue our beating with minimal sexual contact or we could behave as husband and wife ought to and make love. Either way, I’m fine with it.” It sounds so demure phrased like that.

He really ought to learn how to make a real commitment.

“I’ll take my chances with the beating.” Ryouma says it with such a coy smile.

Xander places the brass directly against Ryouma’s cock, brushing the knuckles against it. There is a swollen throbbing, an inflammation of the tissues.

“It’s kind of funny. Just a moment ago, you were lambasting me for my depravity but here you are, hard even in spite of your situation. Thankfully, I’m a gentleman and I won’t look down on you for it. It’s simply because you lack the emotional strength to control yourself. You’ll have to be trained.” The words bulge from his tonsils, taunting him to go to places devoid of light.

He punches downwards, striking Ryouma’s testicles. Ryouma’s body shakes; musculature heaving, squirming, like a dog. Vomit spills out through his clenched teeth, pooling partially digested rice and blood onto the ground. Xander pulls Ryouma’s nose upwards, pinching it as he does, so that their eyes meet. He slips the brass onto the ground with a thud. A lump forms in Ryouma’s throat. He massages it with two fingers, watching it pass down with a gulp.

“Praiseworthy.” Xander says.

He drops down to his knees, brushing his fingertips over the bruises on Ryouma’s abdomen on the way down. They bloom in red and light purple as roses would.

“What are you doing?” Ryouma asks a question like a demand. How distasteful.

“I said there would be sexual contact. But don’t worry, it’s not a punishment. It’s a reward for swallowing all of that back down.” Xander’s right eye itches.

He peels Ryouma’s foreskin back and starts to lick. His tongue runs over the freshly exposed pink of the head, stroking all the way down to the frenulum. He bites gently on it. His hands stroke around the base of the shaft, rubbing long fingernails down clusters of nerves.

“Stop.”

He takes the tip into his mouth, moving his hands down to Ryouma’s testicles. With each thrusting motion, he takes more of the shaft into himself and chokes on the immense girth and length. He drools from the side of his mouth, coating both Ryouma’s cock and parts of the ground in a thick layer of saliva.

“Please stop!”

He grips onto Ryouma’s balls (they throb with desire in the palm of his hands). He pulls away from the shaft (a trail of spit hangs behind) and moves downwards to the testicles. He bites down. Ryouma shudders with a moan of pleasure that tears apart his wrists. A rain of blood and semen cover Xander’s face and hair, turning sticky in the heat of the room.

Xander stands up and wipes his mouth onto his sleeve. He’ll have to burn this shirt.

“Jakob!” He shouts, the door opening with his voice. “Ryouma requires healing assistance!”

As Jakob enters, Xander leaves. He sets off for Camilla’s room in the search for something like comfort. Or validation.

He’s very tired.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I felt insecure about this one lol because the last chapter was a tough act to follow. 
> 
> Well, anyway, there's going to be even more porn and more torture in the next chapter. The next one is where the Cigarette Burns and Electrocution features. And Crossdressing.


	3. Not Even Sparing the Most Sacred I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Made up some Nohrian soldiers, made up some old retainers, etc. so hope you guys are cool with that. Also, this is a two part chapter since it got quite long just with these scenes so that's why there isn't as much raw substance as the previous ones. It's mostly a couple of sex scenes and a lot of dialogue.

In a Sea Filled to the Brim with Noise  
There was a Dog, My Failure of a Self and You

In his dreams, there is a room far unlike anything that he has seen before. Built of immaculate white wood flooring and black walls, so dark that you could not even begin to paint your dream across them, stretch out seemingly infinitely to the front and back of him. From large windows dotting the hallway, there is a sky that is uncomfortably nostalgic. A resplendent, moonless sea of indigo and violet, coated in constellations that he can not remember the names of. The sun rises slowly in the distance, soaking the room in a dim orange and purple glow.

From beyond where he can see (where only the shadows dare linger), a voice cries out with the caressing and provocative tone of a lover. It is compassionate in its familiarity; natural, right, safe. Surely, this time, it isn’t a lie. Surely, it’s not just another bizarre, frightening dream but rather a prophecy. Or, better than that, a meeting with someone that was once lost. Surely the Gods would not punish him again. Not when he has suffered so much.

Receding footsteps (the ground shakes with them) drown his thoughts out. With a light airiness and the familiar clicking of short heels against hardwood, they say “Come and find me”. Xander follows. He chases after the voice with aggressive footsteps that threaten to break the ground with their desperation.

“I’m sorry! Please, come back!” He cries out into the void surrounding him (an ardent light vying for the sun).

It most likely won’t work. He already knows; merely hoping in spite of this as a child hopes on a falling star. He acknowledges that this is also, laughably childish.

“What do you have to be sorry for? It’s not your fault.” Along with the voice is a presence; a man standing so close.

“Don’t apologize. It’s not your fault.” The voice is joined by a presence; a man that stands the breadth of a fingertip away. Close enough to kiss but with a spiritual divide between them that is deeper than even the ocean.

Xander falls to his knees. Pitifully, mirroring the plights of the knights who had lost their way adorning the stained glass of the upper sanctuary of the castle. He sits there, clutching onto an outstretched hand with all of his might, praying for what remains of his soul. This is what he’s been waiting for, isn’t it? To hear that voice one last time? To hear nothing else but that unbroken spirit, to see the laugh and smile adorning the face of his one true love. A soaking hot warmth flows from him, bouncing off the ground with a long abandoned hope.

“Hey, don’t cry. Seriously, I’ll cry too if you keep it up.” His lover speaks with an idealistic tone. It’s so strange coming from a man that has suffered so terribly.

One who has lived in an agony far more unbearable than Xander ever could. He must find him pathetic in comparison.

“I apologize for my emotional outburst. I was merely shocked to hear your voice coherently again. Recently, you’ve spoken to me with an excessively childish tone and it’s so unlike you that I’ve grown worried. More than that, I’ve dreamt of a man, unfamiliar in his familiarity, who asks me ugly, nonsensical questions and scorns me deeply. I had expected that so… knowing that it’s you, that it might be you again, that you may return to me… My heart overflowed with such joy that I cried for it.” Xander hates himself as he speaks, wanting sincerely to beat himself into the ground.

Both for his weakness, in showing far too many far too selfish emotions, partially for his rigidity and inability to say either what he wants or what he needs. Laughably, no matter the situation, he responds inappropriate for a human being and for a King. Crying at the slightest bit of affection but standing firmly as a pole when a broken, battered body with it’s brain torn apart by unimaginable cruelty lies before him. Yes, he just stood there, staring at it as if nothing else ever existed, sinking into a black pool of self-loathing and regret. His words were drowned in the darkness of the murky waves and he could not free either them nor his tears no matter how hard he tried.

What a regrettable existence.

“You never were good with metaphors, were you?” He ignores the voice shifting back towards unfamiliarity for the sake of his sanity. “Those weren’t dreams, they were visions. You were asked those questions because you were not of your right mind. But after what you did to Ryouma, I’m sure that you’re not going insane! You’re trying to avenge me with an amazing sensibility and I understand that now! Thank you for that!”

The world peacefully darkens around them, taking on a hazy blue colour. Xander’s head feels heavy and sluggish; filled with white noise and the torrential downpour of Autumn rain.

Xander clutches closer, weavings fingers into the light fabric of the man’s shirt in the way that a child clutches to their dying mother. The only way to remove him would be to remove the clothing itself.

“If you keep on the path you’ve chosen, I think that the both of us can be saved in the end.” He smiles. Gentle, cutting through the pure white darkness with closed eyes and choppy hair that perfectly frames the expression.

The world peacefully darkens around the two of them, turning hazy blue. Xander’s head feels heavy and sluggish; filled with white noise and the torrential downpour of the Autumn rain.

  
“Please, forgive me. I doubted those words at first. But the sun was so bright that I could not help but feel longing towards its intense and careless beauty. It had blinded Corrin and nearly blinded me with it’s hideous light.” He deserves to crawl filthily like a worm in the dirt and beg like a dog for scraps.

He should not be forgiven without pain and humiliation; without first having to suffer as his lover must have. But of course, his kind and gentle companion would never ask that of him. Instead, his thin and pale hand brushes the tears of Xander’s cheeks.

“Did you really think I’d be mad about that? You must really be feeling sick.” A startlingly immaculate laugh that ruins the illusion. But Xander ignores it since there’s nothing that he can hold onto anymore. “Do your tonsils burn?”

“All of the time, my love.” He replies.

“You know why that is, don’t you? It’s because there’s a great source of anxiety lingering in your life. If you want to get better, to make progress towards our dream, you’ll have to get rid of it.”

With eyes full of tears, Xander stares at the ground. The problem and the solution are obvious, lingering like metal in his body, but he feels such agony when he tries to plan out his salvation. It’s pitiful. After all, if Leo and Camilla sat in such a venerated place, they would hesitate only a little bit and Corrin would not at all. Truly, he is the most damaged of all his siblings. Too weak to even bite the hand that beats him twice for every embrace.

“There is no source to my anxiety.” A lie that’s obvious to the both of them.

“I won’t ask you to do, Xander. I know that it must hurt a lot to even consider it. So, no matter what you decide, I’ll still love. Even if our dream ends up being just that; even if it’s impossible for you to save me, I’ll be happy if you are.” Xander feels sick to the pit of his stomach.

Fear and dread slosh about it like acid, burning in ways that his digestive juices can not. They whisper terrible things to him. Songs of failure and mistakes that were made years ago. He doesn’t deserve such a kind voice.

“Do you remember the first promise we made together?” The man continues on his sympathetic tirade; tearing down all of the emotional walls that Xander had built for himself. “That’d we’d never cry for things that can’t be changed?”

Xander slowly nods.

“Then, promise you won’t cry for me.”

“I can do that.” He replies with the voice of an adolescent; clinging onto fantasies that will never come true.

  
***

He wakes up in tears with pressure mounting in his groin and the feeling of warmth against his chest. Immediately, his mind rushes through possibilities before settling on the worst. My god, she hasn’t, has she?

 _“You act as if you don’t enjoy those kinds of depravity.”_ Writhe.

“What are you doing?” Xander thrusts backwards but there is no release. He remains trapped between his sister’s body and the bed; flat up against his back.

“Oh, don’t sound so upset darling.” Camilla replies in a way that is somehow both sultry and motherly. “You were crying in your sleep so I wanted to cheer you up. Anyway, it’s been so long since we’ve been this intimate with each other, hasn’t it? I missed it awfully. Why, for a moment, I started to think that you didn’t love me anymore.”

It seems as if the infliction, the long and inseparable marriage of love and sex (particularly with men) is hereditary. Awkwardly, it lingers in the spaces between their white matter and the nooks of their hearts. But, with Camilla, it is less like weakness and more like trauma. Someone as strong as Camilla could fight such biological urges to it serves to think that she was simply never given the chance to. There is something tragic about that.

Camilla straddles his hips, slamming against his briefs with her supple thighs.

“I’m truly sorry for neglecting our relationship but please, stop. I’m not interested in such activities right now. Could we possibly do this later in the day?” Questions asked in spite of answers known. This seems to be a recurring thing with him.

“Oh no, darling, I know what waiting means with you. You’ll get up, swear we can play later and run off doing whatever it is that you do all day, forgetting all about poor little Camilla.” She rocks her hips gain. Bumping and grinding until he can feel his erection throbbing beneath her.

“You know that isn’t true. It’s simply that I don’t feel comfortable having sex right now. For God’s sake, I just woke up.”

“But I’m dreadfully lonely! Father won’t return until late this Friday’s evening and he’d be cruel to me about it anyway. Telling me that I gained weight and that I’m not as cute as my mother and all of that usual nonsense. And Corrin was even worse this morning! He lied right to my face. Said he loved that Hinoka like a wife and not me. Can you believe that? Of course, I didn’t, but it still hurt.” She runs a finger up and down between his chest, stopping at where his ribcage begins. “You never speak to me like that.”

Xander holds Camilla carefully (so that she won’t fall off; though that implies that she isn’t much heavier than him anyway) and struggles to sit up somewhat. Her affection for him is tragic as well. Blind dedication even when he’s become so corrupted inside. He wonders if she’s even noticed.

“It you really are this determined, I won’t stop you. I only ask that I may be allowed to satisfy you instead of the other way around. Just this once.” It isn’t for her. Not really.

You see, without the use of either Lilin or the Witches’ Hammer (and even the latter wouldn’t suffice if he wasn’t already in the throes of masochistic euphoria), he isn’t sure if he could even maintain an erection around her. When he was a youth, he could make love to her without issue but age very well could have stolen that. If he could not keep himself erect and Camilla were to notice, and she is exceptionally perceptive, she might start believing that he really doesn’t love her. But more than that, he fears what would happen if he can keep it up. He swore to his father after the first time a woman discovered his… inadequacies that it was simply that he preferred the company of men. And he has maintained that belief, keeping him from being forced to take a wife (at some cost). If a woman were to report otherwise, Camilla wouldn’t but if he can do it for her then it might accidentally happen for a maid one day, then he might have to marry some old Baroness and he could not bare that.

Or, far more realistically, his father knows what he is and uses that unseen threat to keep him away from members of the opposite sex. Particularly those who reign over other countries or major allied territories, keeping Xander just out of reach. That sort of jealousy is almost endearing. It is, at least, comforting for Xander to know that he is loved at least that much.

“Oh? You want to do it like that? I didn’t think you were that erotic, big brother~” She purrs the last word as if he’s supposed to find it arousing.

He does.

“In that case, how would you like me to do it? You’re far more versed in the matters of women and their pleasure than I.”

Camilla places a finger to her lips; contrasting the purple and white as one would a bushel of roses.

“Oh, thank you so much! There are so many exciting things that I want to try with you, big brother! It’s actually hard to pick just one!!” She sways back and forth, breasts shaking side to side. One of her usual ways of adding drama to a situation where it isn’t necessary. “How about we do some breast play then? Mine feel so heavy today, it’d be wonderful if you could take care of that for me.”

  
Xander flusters. Dark red soak into his cheeks and her averts his eyes, unable to look at her. She’s always had a way of speaking about her that returns him to the mindset of a virgin.

“Oh dear, have I embarrassed you? So sorry, Xander. Sometimes I forget how shy you can be.” She doesn’t realize that it only serves to make him more upset. “Alright, how about we add something onto that breast play? We’ll make a deal. Then you won’t have to feel upset anymore since it’ll be on your honour as a Prince.”

He doesn’t have the heart to tell her that isn’t how it works. He doubts she’d understand, anyway. Camilla may be an incredibly intelligent woman, he will never deny that, but she is completely ignorant about the psychology of other humans. She relies almost entirely on her appearance and demeanour of a nurturing figure; one allowing and encouraging others to communicate their problems to her. And while there is absolutely nothing wrong with that (it’s a valuable skillset), it ends up that neither she nor Xander can really understand each other. He is incapable of telling her his true feelings and doubts and she is incapable of making approximate guesses towards the issue; of even of understanding that there is an issue. He ought to feel ashamed for not making it easier on her.

Camilla slides out of her negligee (made up of black, gossamer fabric and purple lace) and bears her lingerie. A bra and panty set in black and edged with gold. Xander swears that he’s seen the pair before but can not place where. They certainly aren’t hers as her bosom slips out overtop the bra, exposing slight hints of her areolae.

She maintains her grip on Xander’s hips, pushing him back onto the bed with her thighs. A woman of her size is probably used to treating men like ragdolls.

“Who do those belong to?” It’s almost laughable how he fixates on her clothing rather than any of the other hundred things that are wrong with this situation.

“That’s our game, darling. You’ll have to guess.” She presses her finger against his nose.

“I see. How many chances to I get?”

“Why, three, of course! It’s the magic number, after all. And you can only guess when I say you can! So one guess before we start, one after our foreplay and the last one while we’re making love. And if you can’t guess, I’ll whip you~”

So, he won’t be able to escape her after all. And he isn’t even adverse (he isn’t sure what he’s feeling), imagine that! He’s slowly becoming a worthless piece of meat, consumed by a perverted sexuality. At this rate, there’ll be nothing of ‘Xander’ left.

“Aren’t these games a tad childish for you, Camilla?” He thinks he says it with amusement but can not be sure.

“What kind of disgusting creature wants to fuck his sister?” Something pistons inside his brain, breaking it into a chunk of rotten brain cells.

He looks away from that something, closing his eyes. Out of sight, out of mind. Or something to that effect.

“Oh Xander; don’t pretend that you don’t enjoy my games as much as I do. I can see it in your eyes. You love being tormented. Or, at least, you love making me happy. And nothing makes me happier than teasing young men like you.” She says.

How odd that she considers him to be young when he looks the way he does. Then again, Camilla always did have a habit of seeing past someone’s skin.

“I suppose I’ll have to concede.” He overemphasizes a groan. Is this relaxing? “My first guess then… Is the outfit Charlotte’s? The bust is smaller, yes, but not extremely so and the two of you have been spending quite a deal of time together.”

Camilla mills against his cock. Tremors of pleasure cascade through his body like waves of electricity. Popping, snapping and altering every place that they arc into.

Hah. She really can keep him hard. He ought to castrate himself for such a disgusting thing. But he won’t. He’s grown steadily addicted to depravity to even consider stopping. And all the pain in the world can not make amends for such sins. But, perhaps, enough pain will be able to make him forget about them. That’s alright too, isn’t it? I mean, some punishment is better than none, isn’t it?

“Not even close, darling.” Camilla slides her bra down, allowing her swollen breasts to jiggle free. “Okay, open wide~”

“At least let me sit up again, Camilla. I understand your need for dominance but it’s rather awkward for me in this position.” Xander replies.

She yanks him up by his shoulders, cutting the skin with her nails. It won’t heal easily. Instead, markings of her love will remain on his skin for all to see and speculate on. He’s harder for it.

Xander palms each breast, marvelling at their softness and remarkable size. Their colouration is wonderful as well. Soft flesh like milk with extremely prominent areola and nipples that are just begging to get sucked on.

 _“You have a Mother Complex.”_ Squirm.

“Oh my, you’re almost salivating. Has it really been that long since you’ve seen them?” She asks.

  
“Yes. A few years, actually.” Xander replies. “I was unaware that you had gotten so large. In that case, would it be alright if I gave you another guess.”

“Trying to get out of our agreement? That’s not like you.” She says. “Either way, I still won’t let you.”

“I merely fear that I am rusty, so to say. If we begin, I might not satisfy you.” He explains.

“I don’t care about that. I just want to bond with you again.”

The comment is a switch. As it flips, Xander forgoes what inhibitions he had. Perhaps you call it surrender but it is more likely, reassuration. He had wanted to do this, hadn’t he? And if she says it’s okay, no matter what he does to try and dissuade her, then it really is fine. Isn’t it?

He pinches her nipples between his forefingers and thumbs. She folds backwards; moaning in a way that is surely exaggerated. Milk flows onto his palms and fingertips and he licks it off in the manner that a cat laps up cream.

“If you had told me that you were lactating before we started, I’d have been much less hesitant.” He remarks.

“Oh? Are you into that sort of thing, big brother? How kinky.”

“Please don’t go spreading that rumour around. I don’t want the inducement of lactation as the new fad for young women in an attempt to seduce me.”

Xander moves his hands beneath her chest. He bounces them up and down in his hands, noticing the change of shape. They’ve become somewhat droopy. Last time he had touched them, her chest was two sizes smaller and as close to perfectly round as breasts can be. But with age comes sagging and as she grew, their definition was lost. And she looks all the better for it. Mature.

He’s aged terribly in comparison, developing wrinkles and the temperament of an old man before he even hit thirty. He looks like he could be her father. Disgusting.

“How long has this been going on for?” Xander asks, arousal giving way to concern.

After all, it’s either drugs, pregnancy or Leo and he isn’t fond of any of those options.

“Why do you always have to talk about such serious things while we make love? Isn’t is so much better to give in?” She replies.

He flinches like slapped. The phrase burns his arm and a metaphorical blister begs to be itched til it bleeds. She if, as usual, right though. His dreams said she was.

So he gives in. Latches onto her nipples, kneading one between his first two fingers and running his tongue around the other. Licking where her areolae meets it. His erection pressed against her crotch, growing damp in spite of the barrier of fabric between them. He presses her bosom together and sucks on both sides. The flavour is fascinating. Sweeter than any of the cows in the country could hope to produce. He enthralls himself on this. The hypnotizing cycle of squeezing, sucking and rubbing’ so distracting that even his self hatred is lost in the sea of eroticism.

Camilla pinches the bottom of his jaw, yanking his mouth away. She’s never been one for subtlety.

“Did I hurt you?” He rubs his chin. Light red marks begin to form; the fetal versions of bruises.

They’ll look lovely once fully formed. Perfectly matching the pattern of her hands; black and swollen with traces of purple. He wonders if she’d give Ryouma a matching set if he he asked.

“Oh, don’t be silly. You were as gentle as a lamb.” She laughs. Boisterous and with a mirth that calms him to his very core. “I just want to move on to something more exciting. So, as per our agreement, you may guess again.”

“The lingerie is your own. From when we were adolescents. I do recall a pair quite similar to them.” Xander says.

“Close but no cigar.” Another laugh.

She allows Xander to lie back once more and rubs her hands against his crotch. Short, circular motions against the shaft.

“Are you excited? You must be. After all, you got so hard for me.” She speaks as a mother to a child.

“Your mother would be ashamed if she could see you now.” It exposes itself in front of his eyelids, snaking back into places just out of sight.

Camilla tears his briefs down with her teeth, exposing his mortifyingly erect cock. She strokes up and down his member, leaning in to lick to occasionally lick the tip but pulling back before he can get used to it.

“I’ve changed my mind.” She says. Xander hides his relief. “I want to give you a titjob instead.”

“Camilla, please don’t use such vulgar language.” He says.

A boldfaced lie. He adores being spoken to in such degrading ways.

“Oh, don’t be that way, big brother. I know you secretly love crude words and gestures.” She envelops his cock in her breasts. The warmth is outstanding.

She pushes her tongue against his urethral opening, lapping the precum off of it. Her breasts envelop his shaft with a brutal friction. But he only grows more aroused from the pain. Volatile sensations rip through his body like lances through flesh. His nerves burn with an unbearable, growing fire.

“Last chance, Xander.” Camilla says (she sounds hazy through his arousal).

He racks his brain, recalling the outfit but no the woman wearing it. More stupid lies. He remembers the situation and her body exactly, as if it happened yesterday (just not her name or face). It was the first time that he understand the meaning of ‘superiority’. The all powerful realization that he was, in fact, better than someone. Anyone at all. Actually, it may be the only time he understood it and that’s possibly only due to the sheer amount of drugs that had been pumped into his body just an hour earlier.

The woman was considerably taller and broader than him with dark hair that covered both her eyes and reached down to her back. She smiled (a sultry grin that he could only describe as witchy), looking him up and down as a wolf. Searching for any weaknesses that she could pick apart and devour.

“Is this your first time?” She asked it with a hint of sarcasm in her voice; an expectation had already been made.

She had likely expected a youthful, princely virgin. Clean and untouched at the age of eighteen with a body free of anything permanent (scars or metal). He felt a rush in disappointing her.

“No.” Came a reply as frigid as the deeps of the ocean.

Ever so slightly, her face changed into one of frustration. She wrinkled her brow and a line appeared around her smile that indicated a falseness that was difficult to maintain.

Imperceptible to anyone but himself, her face changed into one of frustration. She wrinkled her brown, a line creasing her smile, that indicated a falseness that she was struggling to maintain.

“Let’s not worry about that, darling. I can show you things so much more wonderful than she could.” She had a purring tone of voice that he instantly loathed.

It was because she spoke to his father that way. Seducing him with the tempestuous body of a shapeshifting demon; stealing away his love and comfort from both Xander and his mother.

“I doubt it.” The words came out smoothly; so free of weakness that Xander had almost allowed himself to be proud of them.

But that was the drugs talking.

“We’ll see about that.” She replied.

That woman had reached down and fondled his crotch, stroking an excessively long fingernail (how did she get any work done with such decoration? Likely, she didn’t) against his boxers. Her touch only served to make him even more flaccid.

“What the hell?” Her voice was like liquor. Delicious disdain that he drank down like a thirsting animal.

“I am simply not interested.” A sensation. More potent than all the Witches’ Hammer in the world. Certainly more erotic.

He felt dizzy beneath it; wanting to suffocate in the pleasure. To grow fat and bloated like a leech sucking up pride. 

He jumps, coating Camilla’s chest (and a significant portion of the sheets) below him in a bath of semen.

Yes, now he remembers that woman's name. He wonders how he forgot.

“Those belonged to your mother.” His comment sounds flatter than the situation calls for. But isn’t he always like that?

Camilla stands up and haphazardly tries to fit her cleavage back into the bra. It doesn’t quite work. She eventually gives up, leaving the garment dangling around her waist.

“I found it inside some wardrobe while clearing out a few of the unused rooms. The thing was just full of old clothes. It seems like father just… kept all of their things together. Mama would have hated that.” She pitifully forces out a giggle. “Would you like some of them? I asked Leo before you woke up but he only took his mother’s clothing and I don’t want any of mine’s. None of it fits, anyway. She was broad but not particularly busty.”

Xander stares at the wardrobe in the corner of the room and feels something come over him. He can not quite place the emotions but they are grotesque.

“They just seemed so expensive, it’d be a shame to waste them.” She continues on.

“I’ll take it all.” He says with just a few seconds of hesitation. “Would you mind scheduling me a meeting with your tailors? Mine are on vacation once more and I’m afraid that I’ll have to let some of these dresses out.”

***

  
The cage door opening ritual is completed without effort. The rite of key turning and door loosening loses its sacredness, becoming more of a sequence than an act of piety. It is an algorithm marked onto Xander’s visceral memory. But in spirit, it is yet another form of selfish self-flagellation. His soul screams with every acknowledgement of the broken lock, begging to know the reason for coming back to this place. As typical, the answer is a hideously banal collection of thoughts and excuses. Simply, it is for the same reason as why he was born. To swallow and suck down an enormous amount of suffering and to bear the burden of that as quietly as possible.

The need is buried in his degraded brain. It must be degraded. After all, what other reason does one have for finding suffering so appealing? Even before the drugs (and a strong soul would have been able to resist if not completely ignore their effects; his father had said), he was weak and simpering. Misleading with the image of a gentleman. The kind of creature that preferred to scrub his skin than fight back, opening his mouth to regretfully accept the taste of sweet liquor and cigarette smoke. If anything, he feels as if his constant baths have made him more unclean.

“I’ve brought you a gift.” He thumps a chest stuffed with clothing over the door jam.

It’s a hideous noise, reminiscent of death. The sound of a worthless lump of flesh dragged against hardwood floor; breaking, cracking and snapping against things so much stronger than it. It’s pale face smashed against the wood, leaving dark, foul scented streaks.

“I didn’t mean what I said before. About you being a deviant. I was confused and frightened, please understand.” Ryouma pleads; standing, once more, defiantly in front of Xander.

Does he truly know no shame? Or is it simply that his spirit is so strong that he can overcome such things? Xander isn’t sure about it. Or anything. But that doesn’t really matter anymore.

“No need to apologize for things that are true. I am a degenerate nobleman who seeks to sully the hearts and bodies of others.” He replies.

Ryouma crosses his arms out of either determination or dissent. Although, Xander doubts that there is really that much of a difference in this situation.

“That’s a ridiculous sentiment. If you really were depraved, you wouldn’t admit it so readily. The only person who confesses such a thing is the kind that wants their opponent to believe it. And why would you want something like that?” Ryouma replies.

“An honest degenerate is still a degenerate, High Prince.” Xander lifts the oversized chest onto one of the tables.

It instantly pops open, revealing a large collection of well-tailored clothing in black, white and various shades of purple with some red sprinkled in for variety. All of it decorated with the deep, shining gold that Nohr cherishes so. Xander wonders if it is out of the longing for deliverance; for the sun to come blazing down and save all of them.

“What’s this?” Ryouma asks.

“You had complained of inadequate clothing choices last week so Camilla and I took it upon ourselves to remedy that. You’ll find that these clothes allow you both the freedom of movement that you so desire and the comfort that a Prince deserves.” There is a twisted sense of humour to be had in that explanation.

Yet another example of the art of bending expectations with breaking one’s words; finely tuned by the Nohrian Royal Family for generations upon generations. It builds cunning for both parties. The one who bends people learning how to structure sentences and assumptions in ways where one thing is implied and another is meant and the one who breaks learning to be careful of whom they trust and what they offer. In a way, it’s a trial by fire. And Xander and fire have a long history.

“This is women’s clothing.” Ryouma states.

“I am aware.” Xander draws a long black skirt with a white ruffled bottom from the collection. “Wear this skirt today.”

“Did you have these made for me specifically?” Ryouma takes it from Xander’s hands, staring intently at it for an unknown purpose.

“I had them altered for you according to measurements I had taken while you were sleeping.” Xander replies.

He searches through the chest again, looking for a blouse to go with it. Most of them (owing to Camilla and Elise’s mothers and some of those other random harlots) far too slovenly for a man of Ryouma’s calibre. He supposes that’s what he gets for including some of their garments in. They seem so alien against the elegant and delicate pieces that his mother could pull off. It’s as if a pair of toads sat by the side of a songbird and claimed to be more pleasant for showing their skin.

“Who used to own these?” Ryouma yanks at the fabric. Is he unfamiliar with the material?

“My father’s consorts.” Xander takes a white blouse with black ruffling down the centre of the chest and hands it over to Ryouma. “And wear this blouse as well.”

“Isn’t it disturbing to be giving their clothes to me? Didn’t you seem them as being like mothers to you?”

He goes through a much smaller bag inside of the chest, searching for lingerie.

“What is your opinion on stockings? Do you prefer them all the way up or to the thighs? Do you like garters or heavily elastic brands? On that note, is it preferable that a corset goes under the bust or over? And in terms of panties, is there a particular style that you feel most comfortable in?”

“You haven’t answered me.” Ryouma keeps pushing.

“You say it as if it is an obligation on my part. Recall who the captive is here, alright? But if you are so desperate to know my answers to such questions, I’ll make you an offer.” Xander says. “If you accept these clothes without complaint then I will answer you. Is this acceptable?”

“Anything to sate my curiosity.” Ryouma replies. He’s mocking him.

“In that case, would you tell me your preferences now?”

“I am a lover of both garters and thighs so I feel it’d be fine that way, underbust as my chest still hurts and I have never tried on any women’s undergarments so I would not know which ones feel best.”

Xander presents a matte black corset, boned with thick steel and a pair of dark stockings along with a set of unlined lace panties. He sets them gently aside the chest. There is a tactical euphoria in the softness of the fabric.

“As lingerie is quite different to tailor, I had these purchased for you.” A lie. By the time Xander got to the bag, the only things left were the ones that belonged to his mother and they’d be better suited to stay in the family.

Ryouma roughly lifts up the underwear, staring through the lace with the expression that one would describe as belonging to that of a dog trying to understand the inner mechanism of an automobile. A rough, animalistic curiosity that tries to brute it’s way through a refined and complex process. It’s absolutely charming. After all, it’s not as if Xander would look at Hoshidan clothing much different. Maybe a little more intellectual in the pursuit, lying in white, but he wouldn’t understand it. And unlike Ryouma, he wouldn’t let even his face admit it.

Ryouma strips down without shame, exposing dark muscles and a thick member, huge even while flaccid. Xander languishes over the musculature. In his mind, he’s already on his knees, licking at every bruise that lingers on Ryouma’s lower stomach. He chokes down Ryouma’s overpowering masucline scent from the distance, growing slightly hard from it.

“This underwear is needlessly uncomfortable. I hope I have other choices to wear.” Ryouma pulls and tugs at the lace, trying to get it to fit comfortably.

His cock barely fits, straining against the low tensile strength of the fabric. If he got hard, Xander fears they might break.

“You may wear any of the clothes in that chest in any configuration that so pleases you. I won’t stop you.” He says.

Ryouma sets the garters at his waist, drawing the stockings up to meet it. They embrace his calves, stretching towards the mid point of his thighs, defining every muscle perfectly. Xander struggles to keep his eyes away.

He takes the corset off the table and wraps it around Ryouma’s waist. It’s a struggle.

“It’s smaller than I anticipated.” He says. “I’ll have to keep it rather tight.”

He pulls on either side of the bustier, tugging them together; shoving a leg against the wall to reinforce himself.

“Would it help if I sucked in my stomach?” Ryouma asks.

“It would but it’d also result in the corset being painfully tight. It’s best if we just do it like this.” Xander begins to lace the back, yanking the fabric each time he threads a cord through a loop.

With each pull, Ryouma’s waist constricts just slightly. It lends to an elegant silhouette, even more lovely than that of the most refined of Nohrian noblewomen. There is something about the contrast of large bulky muscles and a thin waist (it was already rather slender in comparison to his chest and hips) that just seems to drive Xander mad.

He places his hands against Ryouma’s hips, admiring those proportions as well. The epitome of honesty beauty stands before him in a false obedience. How rapturous it will be to destroy that.

“I would like to get dressed now.” Ryouma says.

Xander steps away. He was too intimate for too long. Pining was something that was to be left behind with his youth.

“While I would greatly enjoy watching you dress yourself, we have a task today. One that requires you to go as you are. But, as I’ve said before, I will answer any questions you may have for me as honestly as I can on the way there. I trust you won’t try to escape.” He brushes remorse away with an austere string of words.

“Do you think me a coward, Crown Prince Xander?” Ryouma retorts.

“That was a statement, not a question, High Prince.” Xander leaves the room, holding the door open for his companion.

Ryouma steps out, pupils dilating as sunlight streams into the building.

“The sun still shines this far back into Nohr?” He asks, covering his face with his eyes.

“You honestly didn’t know?” Xander makes his way down the hall (there is something satisfying about hearing that door slamming shut behind him). “You ought to fire your Spymaster in that case.”

“The fight was on our front, not yours. It’s unreasonable to expect any of my men to seen this far into your country when we merely wanted to defend ourselves.”

Xander’s thighs ache. The words carving little pink trails of agony up and down them. If there wasn’t something a hundred times more terrible planned, Xander would shove him to the ground and beat him until he was bruised and bloodied, screaming for mercy. He would then move onto destroying his mind, saying all manner of awful things, leaving questions to rot in the space between their feelings. He’d ask the definition of defending one’s self. If staying holed up in a lush, verdant country where the sun shines for more than six hours of the day and the waters are as clear and smooth as mirrors is defending yourself. He’d ask where the relief that Ryouma’s father and his father before him had promised. If defense meant taking the only person that Xander ever felt a normal love for and shattering him into pieces. He would cut with words and nails until not even a few traces of Ryouma’s original self remained. Til the sourness of flesh gave way to a new, understanding soul. And the two of them would make beautiful love in a puddle of their sweat and blood.

But there is something important about patience (anticipation?) which tells him that isn’t time yet. It molests the inner parts of his unpleasant memories, informing him of the value of withering quietly.

“You had questions for me.” He changes the subject because he’s uncomfortable.

There’s something that’s almost as bitter as irony in that.

“Are you going to stop our discussion just like that?” Ryouma asks.

“Yes.” Xander says.

He walks faster down the hallway, using long strides and an internal sense of urgency (a sudden sense of dread with no reason behind it) to get himself there as quickly as possible. The less time he has to spend walking, the less time he spends with Ryouma, the fewer questions that have to be answered.

“Fine. In that case, answer my question from before. Didn’t you think of those women as mother figures to you?” Ryouma asks.

“You have the opportunity to ask me anything that you desire and you choose to waste it on that? You’re a strange one, High Prince.” Xander notes another flight of stairs and two more corridors before he gets there. “I’ll ask you this, High Prince. Would you feel affection for a collection of women who used you and your siblings as toys at best? Who tried to slaughter you in your sleep like a lamb? Those harlots were nothing more ruthless witches who were willing to do anything to improve their status.”

“I’m sorry. I was unaware that the answer was that traumatic for you. Was your mother the same way?”

Is there a particular reason why Ryouma keeps pressing him? Is it really out of a misguided sense of justice or is it so he can find more information to weaken him?

“No. She was not.” The words are wistful as the mist flowing off the sea. “My mother was a saintly woman who had loved even the rest of my father’s harem as siblings. She cherished them, protected them from one another and their own all encompassing hatred. Kept a watchful eye over my siblings and me. Comforting us if we so much got a slight scratch on the finger. Mourning even the lowliest criminal’s death once she heard of it. I recall that one night, she sobbed for days having heard that a traitor had been murdered in prison. Even while she lay dying, her neck snapped like a bird having fallen from a tree, she comforted me. Telling me to never fear the world, to never hate either it or myself from her death. In her last moments, she thought only of me and my immortal soul.”

“Are you alright?” Such a simple question.

It brings him to tears. Desperately, a piece of him (still searching for a gentle embrace that will never fade) wants to stop this now and extend a hand in eternal peace and love towards Ryouma. But good does not equal nice and nice does not equal gentle. The three instead exist, floating in a space where they are only tangentially related to one another. Ryouma is as gentle and as kind as a dog but he still tore and fragmented his dear love. No matter what, that can not be forgiven.

“May I ask you a question, High Prince Ryouma?” Xander starts.

“I don’t see why not.”

“Why are you acting so kindly towards me? Do you really believe that what you’ve done is righteous?”

Xander’s beginning to think that he does. That Ryouma, in spite of all of his sins, genuinely wants to reach out to him. The thought is sickening and confusing and unbearably warm so that it feels like the touch of an Angel. It screams, dancing in his ear like fireflies, telling he that he wants to be understood, he wants to be loved, to be broken and violated, to use and abuse and so many conflicting things that his head spins. Unsteadily, he sways, drowning while breathing air.

“What I’ve done towards your people has been for the good of Hoshido and nothing more. It was never personal against you, Crown Prince Xander and I don’t know why you feel that way. Nor do I understand why this is your response.” Ryouma says.

Few things blind a man so thoroughly that he is incapable of seeing what is in front of him. Among these are religious zealotry, familial duty, nationalism and patriotism and love in all forms. He can’t tell which one has blinded Ryouma more. Surely, it isn’t the first but whichever of the latter three will remain a mystery.

“I have three reasons. The first is simply that I can only feel sexually satisfied while engaging in sadomasochistic play with another man. It appears to be the case that unless the both of us are defiled, it’s unfulfilling. Second, you were so kind to be during the few weeks we spent together and I have come to adore you for that. Thus, if you were to marry some woman and leave me, I would die from the heartbreak of it. The third, is merely revenge and forms the bulk of my motivations. Is this would you had expected my answer to be?”

Close to him, there is shuffling of heavy footsteps and the typical banter of soldiers. Someone spits on the ground. Someone else stabs into it.

“It’s exactly what I had anticipated. Self-deprecating but with a surprising amount of honesty. It only cements my determination for us to put all of this behind and become friends once more. But that’s impossible if you continue to hold onto your pointless grudge. So, before I meet whatever horrors await me in that room, I want to know exactly what you think you’re getting revenge for.”

“You know he knows about him and he knows you know. He’s saying these things to torment you. Ah, it’s funny, really. Even though you keep causing him such pain, he sticks around to do this to you. He must have the heart of a sadist.”

“The reasons for my hatred of you are more numerous than stars in the sky and twice as intense as even the abhorrent light of the sun. So, it’s difficult to know where to begin.” He sneers. “It should be obvious that I hate you for blinding Corrin with lies of kinship and the seductions of your witch sister. That I hate you for stealing him from me and my family so that our relationship may never be repaired. But more than that, you have tortured men closer to me than brothers; leaving them hollow shells of their former selves. You’ve let my people starve while you live amongst endless fields of rice, continuing a war that could have been solved by offering us the slightest big of assistance. Each widow and orphaned child, each body left out to rot until darkness hides it from your vile eyes, even night that I have sat and cried for the state of this world, it’s all on your head, High Prince Ryouma.”

Ryouma laughs. A deep, booming roar of a laugh that bounces off walls and doors, circling around Xander’s rapidly declining mental state. It is the agony of white noise.

“In regards to the first, you’re abolutely correct. I took Kamui from you not because I thought that it was righteous but because, for a reason that I could not tell you, I hated that he called you older brother instead of I. I suppose I was envious of your relationship; mistaking it for being much deeper than mine and his. To any accord, I was blinded by an overwhelming desire to covet him to the point where I grew willing to kill and manipulate over it. But I have repented and even encouraged him to develop a brotherly relationship with you once more.” There is a certain amount of arrogance in Ryouma’s voice.

Last night’s torture wasn’t enough to so much as bend his iron will.

“But this is my first time hearing of the rest of it. I’ve never ordered any of your companions to be tortured or killed and I was only vaguely aware of the situation of the famine. If anything, the deaths are on your head as instead of making the effort to communicate the direness of your situation, you slaughtered and abused my people in ways unimaginable. Don’t think that just because I offer you mercy and forgiveness that I have forgotten of your participation in the mass rape and murder at Onzoueku. Naturally, I don’t --”

Worms crawl about miserably beneath the surface of Xander’s flesh, begging for him to take his nails and gauge them out. They’re not real. He knows this. But sometimes, they feel more real than he does.

“It’s not my fault!” Like a burst pipe, the words can’t stop once started. “I did all that I could! Tried to save who I was able! Fight without suffering, win without killing, live with an amazing sensibility! But none of them listened to me! So I had to scream and fight, getting my face smashed in as my father sat and barked orders at me! “Xander, crush the rebellion!”, “Xander, accept your punishment!” “Xander, be quiet and still!” and no matter what I did, I couldn’t make it stop! Not the soldiers, not my father, not myself! So forgive me for not taking the time to show you the painfully obvious discrepancy between your land and mine while you were busy snatching my brother away from me!”

Xander clamps his hand against his mouth but it’s too little, too late. A maid scurries down the hall like a mouse with cheese. By the time his father returns, he’ll have already heard of his son’s insolent outburst. His thighs begin to throb.

“I’m sorry.” Ryouma offers up meagre words as a dog offers its master a diseased, shit stained bird. Not nearly good enough.

“Do you know what’s in this room?” Venom slips out of Xander’s mouth, turning acrid and stinging as it hits the air. It is a complete shift in personality.

Ryouma doesn’t reply.

“Twenty five of the soldiers of the Northern Fortress who have lost a noncombatant family member through either Hoshidan torture or brainwashing. For the price of thousand gold pieces each, every one of them has signed up to watch you be degraded and the majority of them were willing to pay large sums of additional money to be a part of that humiliation. This particular session will only end once each paying soldier has had their way with you with, depending on how much they’re willing to spend, which may take hours to a full day.” Xander opens the door, releasing the acrid smell of cigarettes.

He gags from the intensity. Throat burning, eyes stinging, the taste of smoke lingering in the distant reaches of his lungs. A few of the soldiers put out their cigarettes as a response (all of them pushing fifty). Most of them don’t.

Xander holds onto his throat and the door, letting Ryouma step through and cut through the smoke. He surveys the scene between coughs. Some of their faces are familiar and some are not. Among the more recognizable is one of the guards typically assigned outside his bedroom (a fayish young man with curly red hair, deep brown eyes and a massive scar that has destroyed the entire left half of his face), the older two of the pair of guards initially charged with watching Ryouma (as generic as before with dark brown hair and eyes but at least now Xander knows of a tragic past to make him entertaining), the woman that guards Corrin’s room and always salutes when she sees him (dark skinned with a nasty brand that has torn apart her right eye and white hair that is hacked to an inch above her head) and a man much older than everyone here (Xander swears that he went to his retirement celebration) with hair that’s more white than black, tan skin and a number of burns that give his skin a mottled pattern.

The remaining soldiers - eighteen men and seven women (more than he was expecting considering Camilla is hosting her own event, woman’s woman that she is) from the ages of sixteen to what he thinks might be fifty five in a rainbow of hair, eye and skin colours - are foreign faces.

“Those of you who want to participate in today’s feast, state your name and which act or acts that you would like to purchase please. Those with lower level sex acts go first and we progressively escalate for the sake of better entertainment. Additionally, he’s certainly not a virgin in any regard so whomever goes first is irrelevant.”

As expected, the branded woman salutes him, straight as a pole.

“Knight and replacement for Sir Silas to Lord Corrin, reporting my liege! I am donating two Killer Lances, twelve Vulneraries and a one thousand gold to the Nohrian Empire for the privilege of having former High Prince Ryoma pleasure me with his mouth.” A rigid, formal way of speaking that contrasts with equipment that he doubts she could afford.

Corrin most likely bought them for her in return for her good service. Or Camilla. Xander prays that it is the former for the sake of dramatic irony. After all, how lovely would it be for Corrin to give something to someone just so they could later use it to hurt his most beloved brother?

“Lady Faulis, that is is far too much money for such a thing. I’ll have to request that you purchase something more demeaning or that you keep your money.” Xander replies.

A piece of him feels guilty for charging anything at all but considering the state of this country, he needs any spare weaponry they can offer. But he won’t allow himself to go unpunished for such treachery.

“I already own a Lance, my liege, and I work by the side of a Troubadour so Vulneraries are of little worth to me. To resell them would be an error as well as the price that I would fetch at any store is worth far less to me than this experience. For all of this equipment, I’d be lucky to see four thousand gold but by doing this, I will help deliver justice. Furthermore, I am not a lady, my liege. My family is made up of scoundrels and whores and I have neither served God nor country suitably to bypass that.”

“So, you’ve become blinded by the darkness. Good to know.” Ryouma says in a voice remarkable in it’s offhandedness.

He is a calm as ice and more collected than Xander could ever hope to me. He feels that in his immeasurable frailty that he would have given in by now if their positions were reversed. Like an animal, he would get down on his knees and beg for forgiveness. But really though, he would probably do it for anything as small as a pat on the head. It’s regrettable.

“What are you talking about?” Xander asks.

He struggles to hide his anxiety.

“Tell me Knight Faulis, do you honestly believe that sexually abusing me is justice? Or is it simply that you live in a world where only one man has anything of value and you seek to exercise power in the few places that you can? Either way, it won’t help any. Burning for burning will only end up with the world on fire and the suffering others will never alleviate your own.” There he goes again, carrying on in that way, defiling everything with a voice that rushes like water.

Clear, deep and firmly aware of where to apply pressure.

The old soldier flicks a cigarette filter onto the ground and lights another with a paltry spell. He turns slowly to Ryouma with a face of pure contempt. It shakes Xander to his very core.

“Shut your mouth.” The soldier takes a drag from his cigarette. Making love to smoke. “I didn’t come here to listen your self-serving, idealistic bullshit. I came here to enjoy myself at your expense. Someone’s gotta be punished for this and it’s not as if the squadron of Hoshidan Ninja that strung my wife up by her intestines are just gonna show up and apologize to me. So, you’ll do.”

“Don’t say it as if he didn’t know. I am firmly aware of every tragedy that my men are responsible for. He simply refuses to take punishment for it out of some sort of individualistic statement.” Xander says (it could very well be hubris).

“Does it even matter if I didn’t know though?” The readhead questions. “I mean, they punished you, my Prince, although you tried to stop such terror from happening on your watch. Isn’t it fair that we do the same to him?”

Ryouma scoffs. His disgust mingles with that of the crowed. Venom that breeds with a heady poisonous gas, welcoming and repulsing it’s new companion.

“It won’t help any of you. While you may feel better for a few days or even a few weeks, your desire for justice can not and will not be sated by my suffering. What you truly want, what you need, is to bring those villains to justice. But all of you have been so mislead by the black aura of your land that you can no longer understand the difference between pain and pleasure. If any of you would listen to me for a moment, I’ll try and --”

“Fuck this. Beatrice, sweetie, keep your money. I’ll pay for yours and mine just to make him shut the fuck up. My Lord, how big of a donation does it cost to fuck him in the ass?” The old soldier asks.

“My father has claimed that so unfortunately, that isn’t on the menu for today. But for two thousand gold, you may use him to clean off your boots with his tongue, for five, you may use his mouth in the same manner that one would use a urinal, for eight, you may receive oral on whatever genitalia that you have and for yen, you may use his mouth as an ashtray. So, for both you and Lady Faulis to engage in the act she specified, that would be a donation of ten thousand gold in total. I will also require your name and class in order to create a record of the transaction.” Xander explains.

“With the formalities. Alright. Wolfgang Semmelweis, Hero for Hire. Donating one Brave Sword, one Brave Bow and all ten of my Concoctions.” Semmelweis replies.

“And how would you like to divide up the acts?” Xander asks.

“Oral for me and for her and I’ll use the remainder to pay for an ashtray for everyone here. Not like I need this shit anymore.”

“You’re all insane.” Ryouma laughs with bitterness like iron. “Have you all been broken down so thoroughly that you consider a heinous crime to be like a bonding exercise? My god, you must --”

Xander forces him onto his knees. The rough, scratchy carpeting scrapes at his knees, threatening to ruin the delicacy of his stockings.

“Enough of this. If there are any other takers for a feast, please state your name now for I fear that I can no longer listen to this nonsense.” Xander says.

Is his tone commanding? Does it resonate with a reasonable sociability? He winces. His men must find him more intimidating than usual as their air takes on a different scent. In the place of overwhelming hatred, something like uneasiness grows. And in the corner of the room, fealty blooms as a rose of the night.

“Roderick Elbe, my liege. Lowly Lancer.” The most generic of men states. “Donating two thousand gold for the --”

“Edel Forestier.” Edsel cuts him off with a shaking voice. “Donating all of the equipment in my bag for the privilege of allowing everyone here to do as they please to your beloved mutt.”

The young man empties a bag onto the table. Smooth and unfamiliar metals falls out, bent into wonderfully curved blades and heavily serrated edges. Xander runs his fingertips against them (the cold bareness reminds him that he is alive) as fantasies pollute his mind. Images of himself impaled against thin metal spikes.

They pierce his stomach and chest so that he stills breaths but only barely, watching as his intestines are devoured by carrion birds. They pick him apart, sucking down the worms under his skin; fluttering into the distance at the sound of heavy footsteps. His vision blurs so he can barely make out the man in front of it. Tall, dark and with a body like a battered train left to decay on the side of the tracks. Ryouma. It’s always Ryouma.

 _“You are beautiful.”_ The voice says in his daydreams.

And he dies.

“Where on Earth did you get all of these?” His voice sounds hazy as if heard through a layer of glass but he won’t go off script now.

“My mother was Hoshidan and my father, a great hero. He fought on a war on the other side of the planet and brought back the weaponry that the native peoples there used. And my mother passed down her family’s equipment onto me. I believe that their combined price is incomparable; that these are rare and valuable artefacts that our opponents have no hope of understanding or combatting. As such, I’d be happy to give them to you for free, my Prince, but using this dog as stress relief will please us all.” Edsel says.

“You are among the most generous staff in the entire country.” Xander struggles to smile. He feels that it only serves to make him look more insane. “In that case, I’ll do you one better. In return for donating all of this magnificent equipment, I’ll be offering up my body alongside High Prince Ryouma’s.”

Xander drops to his knees and his white matter swells with a rush of pleasure. There is something about serving and being appreciated for that servitude that is exhilarating. He wonders, the kind of way that one wonders about what they might have for lunch, if that is why Jakob continues on the way he does. Or why Kaze continues to serve diligently in spite of both his country and Master falling.

“I would appreciate if we could all be cordial with one another and take turns.” Xander requests.

The crowd shifts uncomfortably with the shared rose of duty. No one says much beyond whispers. Cigarettes dim and smoke goes out.

“What a noble Prince we serve.” A man drawls. He slices through the crowd with heavy bootsteps.

Xander can tell that he’s a traditional Mercenary even without any identifying armour or markers by the way that he holds himself; by the way his eyes look. They are filled beyond the tear ducts, back into the ocular nerves, with loyalty immeasurable. But not obedience.

“Setting himself on fire so his pet doesn’t have to suffer alone. You’re not fit to be in his presence.” He slams a thick greave in front of Ryouma.“Your only purpose is to lick my fucking boots, dog.”

Hesitantly, Ryouma runs a tongue across the boot’s heel, recoiling at the taste. Xander takes his place; lapping up viscera without concern for either who it belonged to or how old it is. It’s rotten and slimy with a pungent smell stabbing into his nostrils, burning. But the taste is so sweet. More so than all of the sugar in the castle.

“What the hell are you trying to make me eat? Is this human flesh?” Ryouma pulls away, leaving behind a string of drool.

“My apologies, High Prince Ryouma. I was unaware that I owed you an answer. Really though, if you don’t clean it all off like a good puppy, you’re giving me a blowjob.” The mercenary, Xander swears that he’s met him before under the name of Roland, speaks with a smile in his voice.

It is oddly friendly.

“I obey the Crown Prince, not you.” Ryouma sneers.

Such defiance is beautiful as well. If Ryouma just gave up, if that crimson resolution vanished from his dark eyes, then he might as well just kill him and then himself. A Ryouma without scorn is not a Ryouma that Xander wants.

The mercenary exposes his cock; thick and dark with an unwashed scent hanging around it like flies to honey. It looks disgusting. He grabs Ryouma by the hair, forcing his mouth open with an armoured glove and a wild grin.

“Do you have any objections, my Prince?” He asks in a quiet voice.

“Only that I be allowed to pleasure you at the same time.” Xander replies.

“You certainly are a noble young man.” Roland says.

Xander drops down to his knees and positions himself beneath the man’s cock.

“You ought to bathe more frequently.” He remarks.

The man slams Ryouma’s mouth all the way down to the base of his cock. Ryouma gags, spilling spit and tears down the shaft and onto the floor. Xander gets to work on the testicles, taking one gently into his mouth. It has an abnormal taste; sweaty with a kind of sexual musk that you’d only expect on a Wolfskin. Above him, Ryouma bobs up and down with a technique that Xander would rate as just below average. He’s hardly surprised. Hoshidans are a pampered sort who expect pleasure and give nothing in return for it. Xander picks up his slack by licking closer towards the upper portions of the shaft where Ryouma’s gag reflex will not allow him to go.

A pair of hands roughly grab Xander’s inner thighs. He gasps, forcing himself away.

“What was that for?” He asks.

“My Lord, you deserve to feel as good as the rest of us.” Semmelweis remarks.

He squeezes again. The mercenary falls back, strands of semen coating the floor and Ryouma’s lips. Ryouma coughs like someone starting on smoking. Xander makes a mental note to work on perfecting his technique.

“Damn it!” He swears. “Be gentle at least!”

“Being gentle won’t help your technique.” Roland (come to think of it, that might not be his name after all) groans, dragging himself out of the fray.

Beatrice takes his spot, offering up her bare crotch like a prize.

“I won’t be rough.” She speaks with a tone far more gentle than one ought to expect from a Knight of the Nohrian army.

She gives her vagina to him, lifting a leg so he can get in better.

Semmelweis presses a hand against Xander’s growing erection.

“My father will be angry that we’ve done this.” Xander says in a tone that is oh so very demure.

But actually, he doesn’t mean a word of it. Well, it’s a fact, a statement rather than opinion, but the tone is false. You see, his father has always bragged about Xander’s loyalty, his obsequious nature, his fear. But for all the markings and manipulations (Xander thinks that he is, at least, being manipulated), his father couldn’t stop him from throwing away his virginity at the Hot Springs that night. Couldn’t stop him from offering his body to any soldier that looked his way with even the slightest bit of pity. Even now, these despicable acts of defiance - though he knows the punishment will be grave - fill him with the kinds of feelings he had whilst rejecting the Baroness’ advances. The sort of feeling that you feel when a long standing enemy falls to their knees and pleads for mercy they will not receive. The satisfaction of stealing away their pride. Dominance. And he refuses to let that go. Not for his father, not for Ryouma, not even for Corrin’s sake.

“We can stop if you want.” Semmelweis says. “I’d hate to be the man to defile the Prince.”

He’s a Hero so of course he’d be bound by a sense of chivalry. The kind that encourages bold faced lying in the name of dignity of one’s country and King. Everyone around them knows there is no way that Xander could become even filthier and yet, they act as if they’re ignorant of it. It’s a display of solidarity, he thinks. Irrespective of status, he’s still just a tool like the rest of them.

“It’s fine.” Xander undoes his pants and yanks them down to around his waist as a display of willingness. “Although, I would appreciate it if someone had any lubricant.”

There is a muttering from the crowd that’s surrounded Ryouma.

“I do, my liege!” The generic fellow (Xander has immediately forgotten his name again) offers.

Semmelweis covers his fingers in the oily substance and Xander grows anxious. He chokes it back like vomit.

“You know, back in my day, we had to do this dry.” He laughs. It’s not very funny.

A finger slides into Xander’s ass. He moans, bracing himself against the wall.

“You’re rather tight my Lord.” Semmelweis twists it around, digging into folds of flesh.

“My apologies.” Xander’s words stumble out from a slackened jaw.

Another finger presses in. Ropes of pleasure creep along the seams of Xander’s body. Semmelweis scissors the hole with his index and middle fingers; coaxing it into relaxing.

“No need. It’ll just feel better for me.” Semmelweis pulls out, starting to coat his cock in the thick oil.

Xander searches the room, catching a flash of choppy brown hair. Ryouma lays against the ground with Edsel down on his cock and Beatrice pressed against his mouth. Blood, semen and urine run down in a stream to a storm drain awkwardly shoved into the ground. And yet, Ryouma’s shaft is still hard enough to be comparable to his sword. So they share masochism as well.

Semmelweis thrusts; slamming his cock to the hilt with a fluid motion. Regrettably, Xander squeals, arching his back. Desperate and rutting in an animal’s mating frenzy. His masculine ego growing corrupted in the feeling of feminine pleasures.

“Don’t let me orgasm.” Xander says in a way that strikes even himself as abrupt.

“Why the hell not?” Semmelweis hits straight up into the most sensitive of parts, thrusting without hesitation or concern.

If Xander wasn’t the recipient he’d assume, from the noises that were being made, that someone was beating their lover. The sound of slapping is that loud and distinct and his screams of pleasure aren’t helping any.

“I want to come with Ryouma.” His tongue fondles the name.

It’s the first time he’s addressed Ryouma without a title without being angry. Their relationship must be progressing, he realizes.

“You’re an odd one.”

But Semmelweis doesn’t stop. Like striking an anvil, he hits the same spot over and over again, pounding such a divine feeling onto the marrow of Xander’s bones. Xander writhes beneath him, holding tightly onto his partner’s waist as he groans. A cock is thrust into his open mouth. The body of the man (at least, he’s assuming they’re a man) obscuring his ability to see exactly who it is. He supposes it doesn’t matter.

Xander runs his tongue around it, sucking between licks. He fondles underneath the man’s balls, rubbing the way Camilla had rubbed him. Another set of hands take to his chest. He can’t place those either. But they’re lithe, warm and covered in just a few thin scars. They tug at the chains binding his nipples together and a sharp sensation carves into his pleasure. He tightens both orifices, clamping down on the members inside them. With each pull, the pressure increases.

Semmelweis’ grip grows tighter. A hand wraps around his throat and squeezes. Hot liquid flows into his mouth and ass, streaking down onto the carpet as soon as the holes are unplugged. Ryouma twitches on the ground, cum dripping from his ass, mouth and between his breasts with only his own shaft remaining uncovered (he hasn’t orgasmed either). There goes that promise to his father as well.

Hands pull at Xander’s cheek, forcing his mouth open again. He sticks his tongue at willingly, marvelling at the soft cock before him. A stream of salty and sour liquid, hotter and more pure than semen, hits his tongue and drips down his bare chest. Ryouma grits his teeth in front of him as a soldier pisses onto his closed mouth. For the first time, he looks ashamed.

Xander wipes the remaining urine off his face with his hand, licking it as an injured beast sucks it’s own wounds. He stands up and positions himself over Ryouma’s still throbbing erection.

“This will be our first time together. Please try to enjoy yourself.” Xander returns to his usual stoic demeanour. It’s amusing, even to himself.

“I won’t.” Ryouma spits back. “Only Saizou can truly please me.”

Xander clicks his tongue. He inserts just the tip into himself, watching Ryouma’s body tremble before him.

“That may be so but I can still try.” He grabs onto Ryouma’s chest, playing with the surprisingly soft flesh. “They got bigger.”

His hands knead into the fat, making slight imprints before hitting the muscles underneath. Ryouma lets out a dog’s whine. His cock pulses so Xander swears that his heartbeat can be felt, even like this.

“What’s wrong with me!” He thrusts upwards, howling like a demon.

“You’re aroused. Isn’t it obvious?” Xander replies.

He pushes, agonizingly slowly, down Ryouma’s shaft, taking the entire length into himself. He folds a finger into one of Ryouma’s nipple rings and yanks it upwards. It only serves to make the erection inside of him even harder.

“Why am I aroused, Xander?”

Xander twists the ring around. Ryouma pants, thrusting desperately again. If he knew that the Witches’ Hammer would be this effective, he could have ended this war long before now.

“Because like myself, you’re a sadomasochist at heart. You long to suffer and cause suffering so the drug I gave you had an extremely potent effect.” Xander milks the cock; raising himself up at a leisurely pace and slamming back down as quickly as possible.

“Goddamnit! Pick up the pace!” Ryouma snarls.

The crowd banters about whether or not that is appropriate to say to the Crown Prince. It obviously isn’t but it’s not as if that’s important right now.

“As you wish.”

He bounces up and down, using Ryouma’s own momentum against him. Their shared orgasm unfolds as a lotus stroking the night sky; surprisingly quickly. Cum splatters up Ryouma’s chest, mixing with the dried semen left by the soldiers, and inside of Xander.

“The rest of you… Please, go clean yourselves up. I would like a moment alone.” Xander requests.

The soldiers filter from the room; some with their clothing, some without. Semmelweis says a few words to him but he can’t seem to understand them. He focuses all of his energy on Ryouma.

“You’re filthy.” He whispers.

He places his head onto Ryouma’s chest, letting some of that filth rub off onto himself. His face grows sticky from so many kinds of bodily fluids that Xander doesn’t bother to think of them all.

“No. No I’m not.”

Of course not. He’s Ryouma. Ryouma could never be unclean.

***

In his dreams, his skin is kind enough to slide off when he pulls at it. Stained epidermis gives way to immaculate marble muscle. Cleanliness replaces light tanned skin and puffy pink scars and all that was once ugly becomes as resplendent as the sun rising over the distant horizon. As bleach, it cleanses him, pouring out rotten blood, lightening it until it shines like gold.

“Why are you doing this to yourself?” A woman like his mother but not quite. A little younger, a little softer bodied. 

A lot more gullible. 

“You know it’s not gonna help, right?” A gruff voice, reeking of ash and sulfur.

Hypocritical in it's roughness for it is his fault in the first place that Xander has to do this. The day his skin became to crawl with an amazing sensibility was the day when they first met. How easy it is to forget such things when you pursue the moral high ground.

“It’ll only end up hurting you.” The words shine with a saintly aura.

A voice of a woman who has never hated anyone nor had reason to be hated. He doubts that she even has the mental configuration required to feel hatred. That was most likely why he chose her some years ago. Because she was a version of his mother that wasn't aware enough of the hideous brightness that exists in all human beings that causes them to sin. His mother saw her death coming and suffered for it, weeping night after night. Marguerite never did. 

He pulls some yellow fat of his stomach and slops it on the ground. 

“That would be the point.” He replies. “To hurt and become clean for that.”

She steps closer; face obscured conspicuously by the shadow of her habit. If he were to look upon it bare, he knows that he'd be looking upon the same face she made moments before her death. A tranquil smile and warm greeting taken off by a warhammer smashing every bone in her jaw. God, he can smell the rotten meat of her tongue from here.

“You aren’t filthy.” She wraps his hands up in hers. A hug from a false mother to her fake son. “Is he, Tyger?”

“Not anymore so than any other kid your age. Definitely not more than me, at least.” Tyger snickers as if it’s particularly funny.

Xander wonders how he can laugh without a throat.

“And what would you know of defilement?" The words start as a fire; consuming and sucking into its all encompassing mantel of flame until there is nothing left to burn.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last scene was a rush job that I edited in at the last minute, lol, so if it seems a bit weird, that's why. I just thought it needed to go there but if you disagree, I won't mind taking it out. The remaining half of it will be the opening of the next chapter, by the way.
> 
> Edit: Stealth Edited Out the last part. Goddamn, is it bad.


	4. Not Even Sparing the Most Sacred II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's finally done, god bless. Okay so this might be a bit wonky in some places and I'm not the happiest but I decided to prioritize finishing the chapter instead of making sure it was perfect so I could finally move on. Also, this is the halfway mark. There are only three more chapters and an epilogue left before this is done and after that, only two chapters of Leo's Gaiden. So the Sea of Noise is coming to an end pretty soon. Good to see the reception's been great though.
> 
> Edit: This chapter is a mess lol. Sorry but it's basically just a breather with exposition and a lot of porn.

In a Sea Filled to the Brim with Noise  
There was a Dog, My Failure of a Self and You

“A woman who has never had it in her to hate others and the man who engraved the meaning of defilement onto my skin Do you really feel that either of you are qualified to lecture me about what is right or what is wrong? What I am and am not?”

His body is in shambles, you know. His face cracks, sloughing off onto the ground with an unsettling plop. In the way you would pull tar off a sheet of metal, he peels the rotten skin off the beautiful muscle; scratching to reveal cracked ceramic plating patched up with forgotten dreams.

“It’s for your own damn good.” Tyger snarls.

Xander smiles sadly, able to see every movement of Tyger’s vocal chords. And with every guttural sound, blood splatters him and the ground.

Last night, in the dark space of his bedroom (he couldn’t remember how he had gotten there), he dreamt of a man with a smile made out of the Spring rain. Tonight, he dreams inside of a dream; a fantasy of pistoning his fingers in and out of the gaping hole that was once Tyger’s throat. How lovely to would be to see that face, that had brought him nothing but suffering, contorted in agony. How fair.

“To save your immortal soul.” Marguerite says. “And to do something about those eyes so full of sorrow.”

Her corpse dances beneath Xander’s eyelids. Twisted and tangled like an animal struck by a cariage wheel. Her teeth had been scattered in so many directions that he had to fill her mouth in with Mother of Pearl Bones to even start to repair it. Her lower jaw had to be replaced with a piece of cast bronze that he begged (and fellated) his father for and her lips… they still held a peaceful yet unsettling smile. As if something that was not quite living had tried to force them into one. But, as a blessing from the few Gods still willing to hear his pleas, her eyes remained the same above all else. They were still as deeply blue as the night sky; reflecting his mother even unto death.

“I don’t care much for my soul. It’s a delicate and sensitive thing; clutching desperately onto adolescent fantasies and longing. I’d be content if it were to just vanish, leaving me with nothing beyond my rational mind and tempered heart. Beyond that, it is intensely selfish to prioritze my status after death when the people who I love suffer so. Can’t you see? Corrin’s mental state has become unhinged through their lies and magic and my family is suffering for that. More than that…” The name burns his tonsils.

If he says it, then it becomes nothing more than a lie. So he just doesn’t.

“Fuck it Marguerite, that shit isn’t gonna work anymore. Something in the kid’s brain finally broke and all of the preaching in the world can’t fix it. You gotta say something that can’t be rationalized away. Something that’ll hurt.” Tyger says.

Xander sees Tyger’s corpse behind his tears. A throat not so much slit as ripped out and spat on the ground and unfocused eyes in green and cold that gazed far off into the distance. On his lips, there were praises offered up to the Gods. Words that were lost to the sickness of death.

Ah, Xander loathes to admit it but he had laughed when he finally crawled out to witness the body (the enemy searched for him for days upon days; never realizing that his retinue had hidden him right beside where they had set up camp). It was so ironic that he could have done nothing else. For there lay the spiritous, deadly Tyger - King of War and Distant Jungles - torn up like a stuffed rabbit. Like he was nothing. At least, if this changes anything (it doesn’t), Xander had the decency to cry first.

Xander left him there after all of that. For the body was much too heavy for a boy of barely seventeen to hold onto. So he brought the head, cutting it off with Siegfried’s mighty blade so the cut could be clean at least and keeps it beneath his bed in a box gilded with ebony and gold. It looks as fresh as it did that day.

“I don’t want to hear it.” His voice is misleading with the image of a young boy.

Someone is crying behind Xander’s words.

“Doesn’t matter to me.” Tyger walks towards Xander; slowly leaking a trail of congealed blood behind him.

His limp is more pronounced than it ever was in life; slowing him down to a pace that makes Effie seems fast. It is… The scenario is… a type of emotion that Xander can not name, only describe.

It is wet and cold, the kind of thing that you can only experience in a very specific situation. For example, imagine that you were born alone in a very dark, very vast place with your sole companion being a large and dreadful beast. While it may hurt you as it pleases, it is still all that you have. So you take it until you come to love it for being alone is so much worse. And then, after you have accepted its nature and your fate, it starts to die out in some hole somewhere and it takes you days upon days to find it. There it lies, twisted and in pain. In that case, there would be an unbearable sense of pity; the desire, nay, need to free it from the shackles and almost relief. After all, it had hurt you so much, why wouldn’t you want it dead? But along with that would come a fear that presses into the back of your mind. Feverishly, you would beg for it to speak to you for just a moment longer. Because if it were to die, what would you have left?

Xander, to the point of madness, does not want to be alone again.

“Do you remember the promise you made me at Onzoueku?” Tyger kneels down in front of him.

It is the pious stance of a knight who reveres his Prince as a God. The same one that Tyger used to get into whenever Xander felt like reminiscing or monologuing or simply, if he had fallen and needed a hand up. It was just another example of kindness existing in a man who was born with the sole purpose to go on his way, defiling everything.

That night, beneath the uneasing light of the moon, the two stood just like this. Xander was upright and tall as a weed, but lacking the scar tissue that comes with experience, and Tyger knelt wordlessly by his side. Back then, Xander had a heart of glass and a smile of roses. Such a contrast against an animal like Tyger who Xander doubts ever considered his effect on the world. And yet, Xander can not help but repeat that dynamic in (almost all) of his unrequited loves. Perhaps it is simply another complex of his but more likely, it is because he knows that only a sadist could even love a man like him.

“I won’t let you do that again, you know.” Xander said.

“Oh?”

“Shall I assume that’s your way of asking ‘why not’?” There was no confirmation but he carried on. “Some time in the past few days, I could not tell you when exactly, I dreamt of a world of peace and beauty. Where the rain was as clear and as sharp as the edge of a mirror and my siblings and I lived without fear of the future or my father or the Gods. Where I was free to cry beneath the splendor of an intense blue sky, careless with its beauty, without suffering of weakness or the threat of punishment.”

His words were glass; painful in their reflection and as sensitive as his sullied skin and heart.

“In that dream, I saw a man that was almost familiar to me. His body resembled beaten iron, coated in more scars than the hull of a warship, and his face was lined with hardships. But in spite of that, his eyes held a resolution a shade of crimson that I have never seen in my life and won’t see again. He spoke kindly to me, as if I was his brother, and offered me comfort as the two of us we soaked beneath the Summer’s rain. When I woke up, I had cried so passionately that the soldier sleeping beside me asked if I was in duress. And I had no answer for him.”

Tears flowed even at the memory of that dream. They flow even now.

“I want to cherish and nurture that dream; tend to it so it may grow even in the ground that we have soaked with blood and hatred. But I can not do it alone, Tyger. I am weak and afraid. Please, help me.”

 He laughs at the hypocrisy of that situation. What right did he have to make that wish whilst surrounded by corpses? Those beautiful bodies of the people he had believed he wanted to save were left out to rot in the morning sun and Xander did not shed more than a tear for them.

“You said yourself that it was a ridiculous dream. Why are you going back on that now?” Xander asks.

“Because we don’t want you to suffer anymore, Alexander. You don’t deserve this.” Marguerite answers.

“And because we love you.” Tyger finishes.

As Xander stands, the flesh falls of his bones. A mass of what he once considered to be ‘him’, a lump of red meat and yellow fat without a reason for existing. It reeks with the uncomfortable scent of a child dying alone and in pain.

“Stop lying to me! If you truly loved me then you wouldn’t have gone and died for my failure of a self and left me all alone!” The words jump out before Xander can stop them; mingling with tears that burn and blur his eyes.

As expected, when he looks (he doesn’t want to), there’s no one there. Nothing but a pile of rotten meat. He wonders if that is what he really is; if that’s what he was all along.

 

***

 

“Corrin.” Xander’s voice is as longing (wistful? Childish? All of the above?) as his daydreams but twice as somber.

He presses his face against the steel of the door, feeling safe in the unfeelingness of the cold. His eyes flutter open and closed, daydreaming of sleep for actually doing the act is no longer good enough for him. It doesn’t help any. Regardless of wants or actions, he finds himself exhausted somewhere around two to four in the afternoon and passing in and out of consciousness seemingly randomly only to wake up hours later in strange areas with no recollection of how he got there. He attributes it to stress.

“There is a way to fix that, a way to sleep soundly once more.” An indigo voice lights his synapses on fire.

“Tell me that I can come in. I must speak with you.” He murmurs. “It’s very important.”

 From beyond the door, there is a raucous scrambling; bare feet scraping against hardwood. The sound of a shared childhood left to wilt by the side of the road. And most importantly, one of Xander’s most cherished memories with twice the preciousness of raindrops against the windows but half less than the sound of Corrin’s tears.

“I really don’t want to talk.” Corrin’s presence is subtly yet provocatively teasing through the thin metal of the cage door. “I don’t feel well.”

Nostalgia flashes through Xander’s mind. The lie is familiar; said in the same way as it was some few years ago (for Corrin is trapped within his boyhood). Xander recalls it as the same excuse that Corrin used as a way to get out of that day’s schooling. It worked more often than it did not.

“Would you feel less sickly if I offered you something in return for your cooperation?” Why does it always have to come down to this?

Why is it that no one can accept their fate (or his feelings) gracefully and without complaint? Why can they not just give up and let him be happy? He knows why, he always does. It is because no one can be satisfied doing something for Xander’s own sake. His stern, abrasive personality and perverted body and mind - so obvious that a normal person could notice it simply by staring at the lines on his face - rejects all that come close to it.

“There’s nothing that you could give me.” Corrin replies.

“Do you really care so little for your companions, little Prince?”

“What do you mean?” Corrin’s wavering voice is an open window in a secluded fortress.

An opening.

“Only that I’m willing to allow you contact with some of your closest allies in exchange for nothing more than the ability to speak with you face to face. But if that isn’t worth it to you, I’ll take my leave.” Xander spins on his heel, taking just three steps before Corrin calls out to him again.

“Wait!” Corrin pleads. “Xander, you can come in! Just… please, let me see them again. I’m really lonely.”

 _“He is deceiving you with the image of a young boy.”_ It thrusts into his amygdala, sloppily making love to his slowly decaying neurons. A love confession to his fragmented orbitofrontal cortex.

Xander tastes deception as sweet peach liqueur but won’t abandon it.

“If you ask me as gently as that, how can I resist?” He smiles simperingly, ingratiating to no one in particular.

With a sharp snap and a few meagre magic words, the door unlocks. It’s steel flesh groans pitifully before bending back and up to where Corrin’s eyes can not quite follow. Xander steps over the threshold, a chill clutching onto his spine, and it creaks shut behind him. And the two of them are trapped in this small (for now) room together. If Xander really wanted to, he could break both of Corrin’s legs, force him open and engrave the brutal love of the Dog Rose onto his visceral brain. Fucking until the night ends and dawn breaks purple over the horizon; until their bodies and minds merge into nothing more an amalgamation of lust and their mistakes. And he does want to do this. Somewhat.

But something exists inside of Xander that remembers the two of them playing in fields of green beneath a sun whose light did not hurt that much. A part that remembers ash and ichor and a light wind carrying the scents. That little thing inside of him had wanted to keep running so no one could find them. To live deep within the forest where Xander did not have to deal with the eyes of the court or his father’s wandering hands. It begs him, so cruelly as it knows he can no longer help himself, to leave Corrin be and he listens. Although there are tears on the inside for he is falling so far into the darkness and knows that there shall be no escape from it.

The thoughts are drowned out in a sea of eroticism as Xander stares his brother up and down; growing fascinated with that body (he had just said he wasn’t going to give in and now he does this). Corrin’s lanky limbs, the colour and durability of eggshells, and a skinny and awkward torso clad only in a pair of loose boxers and a black undershirt engrave themselves on Xander’s memory. He’s lost a lot of a weight since he arrived (Xander too), looking sallow and miserable.

“Why aren’t you dressed?” Xander asks.

“I don’t know.” Corrin sits down on the bed and huddles into the corner. There are bags under his eyes, deeper and darker than even Leo’s.“I just don’t feel like doing anything.”

“I understand.” Xander unconsciously lets his hand rest on his brother’s lap.“But pushing me and Camilla away won’t make it any better. If anything, you’ll only end up feeling worse.”

“I know that now and I’m sorry for doing it. I was just really upset about the thing with Ryouma and the others so I said all of that nonsense. But I understand why you guys did it now and I want you back in my life.”

“Oh?”

How far will this attempt at machinations continue? Does Corrin even have the awareness of self and others to maintain the facade? The understanding of Xander’s true motives and desires and those things that Xander can not face himself? Or will he simply do what is typical and spout off moderately appealing idealistic bullshit? Unable to understand deeper thought processes.

Does Corrin understand the meaning of ‘sensibility’? Does he know how it feels to wake up with such an unbearable, unidentifiable agony that all you can do is sob? The kind of thing that you feel when you are alone in the darkness with your thoughts? Does he know what happens when that dark starts to feel more comfortable than the light? When you seal away your emotions so that crying becomes difficult even though you long for it? Can he ever? My god, can’t he at the very least try to understand how much Xander loves him?

“You did it to protect me from Ryouma’s brainwashing and Hinoka’s seduction! So I wouldn’t be blinded by them. So I could stay with you. I’m sorry for not realizing it back then.” Corrin’s smile is has grown corrupted alongside his heart; there is no longer any sincerity to it.

Xander dreams of knocking the expression off Corrin’s face; of flesh and bone cracking beneath the might of his fists. But so much more than that, he wants to bite down on the pale skin of Corrin’s lips and suck up the blood like a maggot. To kiss Corrin with all of the strength in his body and keep kissing until the dawn breaks. To do terrible, unforgivable sins unto that body.

“That is enough.” Xander squeezes his brother’s thigh so tightly that it flushes. “You can not manipulate me Corrin. You can not even try. For I know you better than you know yourself.”

Like the rest of him, that reddened skin is so… clean. There is not a cigarette burn, not a jagged scar, not a patch of discoloured epidermis or even a patch of hair beyond white strands that marr those features. It is so very much unlike Xander’s own skin; covered in fine pink lines and brands that still burn if touched wrong. In fact, Xander finds Corrin’s skin entirely unique for even Laslow, who had the eyes if not the innocence of a child, has scars crisscrossing his legs. Thick, puffy keloids on his knees where he had fallen as a boy and a few more on his feet from the time he claims he fought off an ambush directly after a bath. Worse than any of that, a massive hypertrophic red scar has developed on Laslow’s right ankle with a few puncture holes dotting it (from where Xander had to drain the yellow, snot-like pus from it). Yet, somehow, if asked to answer honestly, Xander would still say that he prefers those twisted legs to Corrin’s immaculate ones although he can not say why.

“Xander, I promise, I’m not trying to manipulate you.” Corrin says with a hint of frustration that does not make the situation any more believable.

“Do you genuinely think that I would simply believe that you had given up on the people you claimed so vehelmently just a week ago were your true family? The very people that you betrayed us for? Who you have let damage you to your core? Why, only a madman would fall for such an obvious ploy.” Xander leaves an imprint of his fingers on the supple flesh. “Regardless, you have gotten quite thin. Please, eat more or I will have to forcefeed you.”

“Damn it Xander! Why won’t you let me help you?” Why indeed.

“I neither need your help nor want it. I am content with the way things are and the person I have become and beside that, your idea of salvation is to surrender body and mind to Hoshido. To allow them to use me as a doll. Can you even begin to comprehend how much that will hurt me? After what they have done to our people, our family, after what happened to Laslow? Or is it simply that your masculine ego has grown so corrupt that you are unable to focus on anything beyond your own please, ignoring the suffering of others?” Xander pulls Corrin into a grotesque deconstruction of a hug, letting his younger brother lie on his lap.

He places his hands between his brother’s thighs and imagines jerking him off. In Xander’s mind, Corrin’s face is beautiful with the wonders of submission and sexual deviancy. With his face flushed red and his body trembling, he pleads for Xander to finish him off, offering all number of things in return.

“Is nothing sacred to you?” There is a swelling of ideals in Xander’s VTA.

No, not really. And even if there was, he wouldn’t spare it.

“Tell me Corrin, have you and Ryouma fucked?” His voice snakes out of him before he can force the thought out of himself.

Corrin shifts awkwardly on Xander’s lap, grinding into his erection. It only serves to further reinforce his older brother’s diseased line of thinking.

“Why would you think that!” Corrin’s begun to cry, sobbing as he did as a boy.

Ah, his tears smell like saltwater rain.

“The way that you covet his sister is quite suspicious in and of itself and you always speak about him with such a lustful expression glued onto your face so I could only assume the worst. But I don’t mind if you’ve done such things with him. It’s my fault, anyway, for neglecting your feelings as a boy. You need fret no longer Little Prince, I’ll make it up to you. With just your confirmation, I shall touch you in ways that no one has ever touched you before or will again.” Xander’s voice exposes his true nature in the way that one would expose their genitalia to the public or the organs beneath their ribcage.

It is a sentiment as black as the night sky, secreting fear and self hatred from his lips like a burst pipe. But in the spaces between his vocal chords, there is a delirious sobbing to return to some measure of decency. Sadly, that weeping is choked out by a predatory, sexual instinct that wears the skin of something resembling a wolf but is so much crueler. It calls to spare not even the most precious things that Xander and Corrin had shared; shaking, writhing, jerking, screaming and finally exploding in the parts of Xander’s mind where he no longer ventures to.

“Xander, stop, please! I promise, I haven’t do anything weird with Ryouma! I mean, Hinoka and I haven’t even had sex yet so what makes you think I’m ready to do it with another man? Please, don’t touch me like that again.” The colour of Corrin’s voice is whiter than a bone.

Xander dreams whilst awake and in that dream, he and Corrin are running through the woods as they did as children. Xander as a wolf with black fur and golden eyes (and a body covered in scars) and Corrin as a pale lamb with clear, red eyes that carve through the mist. As Corrins runs, Xander pursues, eventually growing tired beneath the might of his older brother who has always been so much stronger.

“I’m scared.” Corrin says in a tiny voice, barely bigger than a sapling.

“Don’t be. I won’t hurt you.” Xander softly smiles, embracing Corrin with the geniality of a lover (oh God, his brother’s lips are so pink and the light shines so radiantly off the tender, white skin) .

And then, dutifully as a older brother ought to be, Xander tears out Corrin’s throat with terrible teeth and terrible claws.

Light streams down on the two of them in that hazy forest, sparkling off Corrin’s blood like rubies and Xander’s teeth like ivory, as Xander eats his brother down to the bones. No, he won’t spare those either. Instead, devouring that last remaining part (that Ryouma can have) with the ravenousness of lust. They taste like ash.

“Am I ugly to you Corrin?” Xander grows mad with the taste of smoke lingering in the back of his mouth. “So repulsive that you would rather have Ryouma’s hands on you than mine? So dangerous that you would lie about it to my face? At least tell me why you love him so much more than me? What does he have that I do not? Answer honestly this time! And don’t you dare try to manipulate me again when it does nothing more than make up both even more miserable!”

“Your despair has a simple and easy cure, Alexander. So why aren’t you dealing with it? Don’t you want to be happy? Don’t you want Corrin to be happy?” His Vagus Nerve is on fire.

“Xander. Please, go. I need some time to think on things before I answer, okay?” Corrin asks.

Xander drags himself towards the door, asphyxiating as something like rationality slams into him. His father’s hands are curtly strangling him, ripping holes into his brain so even the brotherly affection he once felt for Corrin becomes nothing more than a shambling abomination of his fetishistic loneliness.

“Forgive me.” Xander stumbles out of the room with a burning in his tonsils. “I do not know what foul spirit overcame me but I promise that it will not happen again.”

“Wait, Xander! Come back!” The door slams shut behind.“I didn’t mean to--”

 

***

 

“--Hurt you.” His father’s voice was muffled behind a thick wooden door but Xander could hear every word perfectly.

He pressed the side of his face against the scratchy materials, lodging splinters in his cheek for his troubles.

“But if you keep struggling so, you’ll be hurt again by your actions. This is simply the natural consequence of the act.” Gentle, understanding words hid behind soft sobbing and the sounds of war.

In fact, the statements had been said so nonchalantly that Xander thought he must have heard them wrong. Of course, he hadn’t but selfishly, wishes he truly were mistaken. Or rather, that he had not heard anything at all. Then there’d have been no reason to enter that room on that day and he wouldn’t have to deal with this heavy burden. If he had been a little bit less chivalrous (just slightly more concerned for his future), then perhaps she could have taken his place in their father’s eyes and left Xander to live with the amazing sensibility had had dreamt of.

He laughs with the bitterness of awareness of self; knowing that he would just end up hating that arrangement for one reason or another anyway.

Xander had opened the door without a thought beyond “I need to save her!” which was done without definition of either ‘her’ or ‘salvation’ (much less with thought on the reasoning behind such logic in the first place). Maybe if he had thought harder on it, he’d have realized that his very presence is what caused her so much suffering (twice as much as there would have been if he had simply minded his own business). So, in that case, salvation meant nothing more than being tarnished alongside someone else. Although, it’s possible that truly is the meaning of the concept.

After all, Xander has never felt as whole as he has watching Ryouma bleed as he had bled and continue on in that same enduring way (Xander could never manage such a feat). But the definition of ‘her’ remains written onto his blood as a shared memory. Horrific and lovely. It sleeps where their ability to love once was.

“Xander!” Camilla called from a face coated hideously glorious fluids; snot, blood and tears.

Their father’s calloused hands had been forced between Camilla’s legs, exposing her - still clothed at the very least - crotch to the air. There was a cut on her upper right thigh. A red line, as thin as a needle and still bleeding, that irrevocably stained her body; perfectly mirroring Xander’s own sullying. The realization brought Xander to tears as burrowed memories - hidden inside of his spinal chord - started to reemerge.

His youthful angst, hatred and sorrows, the moments of agony spent in a room with walls harsher than iron were captured magnificently inside of those tears. Yes, he was certain that something was dying inside of him.

“Father, please stop.” A thoughtless collection of sounds without the sense that Xander had been born with. “I can’t stand to see you doing such things to her.”

It was such a whimpering statement that it had been lost as soon as it hit the air; so quiet that even the shadows that shifted around Xander’s malformed brain were unable to hear them. But his loving father, who always spoke to him as if speaking to a child, digested them before they had ever really left Xander’s lips.

“Please don’t make a scene Alexander. It will only end up hurting you both in the long run.” The comment reopened a long healed wound on the surface of Xander’s mind. “Do you recall the situation that was your body? The feeling of increasing sexual depravity? Starvation? The same has been bestowed unto her by her mother’s corrupted female ego. Only through masculine interactions may she start to find the salvation that you have found. So do not interrupt us.”

Xander’s skin and heart were feeble, twisted paper and glass. A gift from a mother who feared her own hatred and a father who feared love. In short, they were good for nothing more than causing Xander pain. For failing him. But, in spite of all of these weaknesses, there remained a part of him that was at least efficient. Albeit, still little more than a squelching pile of spinal fluid, blood and fat - it would do.

Much unlike his body, Xander’s mind does not falter when he needs it. It whirs like an engine, running through possible solutions before his presence so much as grows awkward. Here, again, he circles around the concept of salvation. Desperately, to make up for his inability to help himself, Xander wanted to save Camilla. Although it would do nothing more than bring even more pain down on himself.

“Father, I am truly sorry but I can’t simply leave.” Xander fell to his knees, eyes wet with stars. “I had thought that my ego was lightening, that my filthy desires were being surely if slowly being destroyed, but I was wrong. When I entered this room, it occurred to me that the situation is quite the opposite. My heart has grown darker and more perverse so that watching you touch Camilla as you had touched me fills me with an intense envy. I want, more than anything or anyone else, to be the only person that you touch like that.”

Xander dry heaved in the back of his mind, praying that his pious expression could remain as was. And you know what? Such a thing was shameful.

“My father is a kind and gentle man.” The notion danced through Xander’s mind; a ballerina inside of a music box. When he cried and fear shook his core, he simply opened that box and let the ‘music’ play. But this time, the lullaby that had been passed on from his mother (for she had said the same thing so many times) could not soothe him. It had taunted him from the shadows instead. Like a lie.

Xander erased the notion from his thoughts, replacing it with the increasing repetition of the phrase and the kind of cognitive dissonance that only a child can really make (or a zealot). Camilla had been acting odd, hadn’t she? Fearful and flirtatious. Certainly, she was no longer herself (and she won’t be again); behaving as the Baroness had. Perhaps their father’s claims were true, after all. Xander had found that his thoughts really were calming down, anyway.

But still, he could not abandon her.

“My dearest Alexander, you have always been such a selfish boy but I do not blame you for it. For just tonight, I will humour your perverted sexuality. So, come boy! Seek comfort in your father!” His father’s grip loosened on Camilla, allowing her to hurry off to some corner of the room.

She always looked, looks, so beautiful when she cries.

Xander threw himself into his father’s arms with something that was not quite affection. Because, ultimately, Xander was jealous. For the only time that his father held him with such gentleness was before and after they did such ugly things with one another. So really, it was reasonable for him to fear Camilla, yes? Right?

“Watch closely Camilla. Your brother and I will now demonstrate what kind of things befall those who stray from the sun’s light.” Fingertips circled around Xander’s nipples from behind a barrier of silk.

A surge of pleasure nearly drowned Xander’s higher functioning (he wishes it had so he doesn’t have to remember this), replacing it with the bizarre, immature need to covet. To bathe in the joy of a few gentle caresses and the words “Well done.” as only animals and slaves do. How sad he had become; willing to sell his body for a moment of affection. Xander genuinely was lucky that his father had picked up on this trait before anyone else for he was sure that no one would ever treat him quite as well.

But you know, maybe that isn’t true. Maybe it wasn’t true at all.

“Your body is in shambles.” Xander’s shirt was torn from his body. Cotton stitching ripped and broke into pieces that were no longer fit for clothing. “It surrenders to the desires of an impure love and is twisted for that. But still, you are twice as beautiful as Katerina could have dreamt of being and grow more lovely with each passing night.”

A series of complicated lacing around his crotch was torn and - left asunder for their inconvenience - taking care of the last piece of Xander’s clothing that might get in the way.

Xander shuddered as the throbbing of anticipation shot up his spinal chord and nervous system, pressing a swollen cock into his briefs so roughly that it was almost painful.

“Hard already?” His father curtly laughed, removing Xander’s briefs far too quickly.

“Please father, be more gentle.” Xander’s stomach hurts when he complains. So badly that he feels as if he might vomit.

“Now, now, Alexander, you won’t get any better if you keep complaining like that. Only pain can make up for your sins. Must you go back to that place?”

“No father.”

“Good boy. Now, Camilla, come here and give your father a hand.”

Camilla was as a doe on shaking knees that could barely carry the force of her anxiety. Back then, and for just a few years afterwards, she was so very delicate. Like a flower or a stained glass window inside a long forgotten church hall. An elegant, transient state of being that Xander wanted to protect above all else. He wanted to shatter her into pieces.

“What do you need of me?” Xander noticed her wavering voice and loved that (hated it) as well.

“Something that men must do before they make love to one another is massage oil onto their members as a way to prevent the friction from injuring their lovers. As I’m sure neither you nor I wish to hurt Alexander, although I doubt he’d mind the pain, I would appreciate it if you would do the massaging for me. Unfortunately, my hands have grown rough with war but yours are still as soft as silk. So it would be a lot less painful your your brother if you were to do it.” His father is a kind and gentle man with a wonderfully soft voice.

Xander began to cry again (although he lost the ability to be aware of why) and hid his tears with malice. Something had finally begun to decay inside of him and he didn’t understand that either. Even now, he could not tell you what was lost that day, only that something had certainly changed and that he was not sure if it was for the better.

“I want it to be painful! It’s good for my soul isn’t it? And it feels good!” He spoke hastily, unable to look away from Camilla’s eyes.

Dear God, they were so pure. Light purple as wildflowers and wet as the morning ground. It just wasn’t fair that he got stuck with such ugly ones. Ones that you could not even get lost inside of.

“There’s no need for that. You deserve to be treated kindly today, Alexander. After all, you’ve been so honest today that I feel we are truly progressing in your healing.” His father’s words were acid in the back of Xander’s throat and he choked on them.

“And I want to continue being honest. Please, allow me to experience something agonizing! Something that will sear the flesh from my bones and set my nerves on fire!” He begged. It was just as much for his sake as Camilla’s.

“You are just like your mother; an incurable sexual masochist. Well, I suppose there’s nothing to be done about it. I’ll have to hurt you.” There was relief that quickly went awry with the feeling of his father’s breath against the back of his neck. “But after this. I would feel terrible if I hurt you while claiming to be kind. It just seems so dishonest.”

Yet another miserable failure. But Xander came to expect those by that point.

He pushed himself off his father’s lap and onto the bed, laying there as a frightened bird. Roughly, he pressed his face into the comforter so he did not have to look at least.

“You’re a beautiful girl Camilla. More radiant than even the kind of woman you see in your dreams.” The words lacerated Xander’s skin, embedding fragments of envy like glass in his muscles.

Xander sobbed onto the sheets. Quiet heaves of shame and hatred for Camilla’s sake, for his father, for his failure of a self and for the world that had never even wanted him. More than any of that, he cried for the sake of something that was festering inside of him, a dying creature in the center of his being. Screaming and twisting with maggots that writhed inside of his crippled brain. Xander cracked and broke alongside it, silently bearing burdens far too numerous to count.

He sat upwards and wiped his eyes, smiling so strangely it looked split in two.

“I can’t hold back any longer father.” Did he say that for the sake of Camilla’s future or for his own parasitic draining of physical affection? Does it matter what the intentions were as long as the result is good, anyway? “Please, make love to me!”

Xander was unable to glance away from Camilla’s hands - white as a bone - wrapped around his father’s cock and her melancholy expression. But he wished he could of. For this was a reward. He should be happy while receiving it.

“Are you that starved for touch that you would throw yourself at me like a dog without meat or a whore without a fix?” His father wrapped him into a tight embrace. “I blame your mother for this. She gave you far too much affection as a boy and now I fear that you can not live without it. At least it was I that picked up on this weakness and not some soldier that might turn you from me.”

The repetition of concepts hammered themselves into Xander’s brain. They were like beating a dog, a way to train his very body and mind so that he responded to such comments with nothing more than resignation. Thus, the more they were discussed the more submissive Xander became. So was the nature of an animal.

“I thank you for your perception, father.” Xander let a whine of pleasure die in his throat.

He stiffened as his father, still as strong as he was in youth, lifted and turned Xander’s body around so that he could face the cowering mass that was Camilla. She looked so… disappointed in him. Horrified, even. Xander felt as if inferiority had taken over his body but could still only shoot her a pitiful glance.

“I’m sorry for being helpless.” He mouthed. “I’m sorry for not being able to save you.”

If there was a response, he didn’t see it.

“Keep a close eye on your brother’s expressions so you too can learn to recognize depravity with just a glance.” His father said. “For example, his body is twitching and throbbing in anticipation and although I can not see his face, I guarantee that he has grown red in the cheeks. Is this a correct observation?”

“Yes father. Xander’s face is all pink and his… uhm…” She was so pure back then. Like a lamb.

And we all know how Xander is with lambs.

“My dear, don’t fear foulness, say cock.” Their father is a kind and gentle man who makes Xander’s tonsils burn with hatred and compliance; who smeared his beautiful, white clad body with filth and left it to rot. Who destroyed him and everyone who he had ever loved, even for a moment.

Ah, ‘makes’. So, he’s still affected by this memory. Of course.

“Xander’s… cock…” Camilla stumbled over disgusting statements with the mouth of a virgin while Xander was forced to lie in them like a whore in piss and vomit and semen.

How he hated her for that (he had, he thinks, wanted her to grow filthy like him after all of that). But he loved her far too much to do anything about it beyond dream. I mean, it wasn’t as if it was her fault for being born.

Although it was not Xander’s fault, either.

“It’s swollen and red at the tip.” She couldn’t even look at him.

“Would you like to touch it? It will feel much nicer than my own.”

Camilla’s hands trembled marvelously as she let them rest against Xander’s shaft. He fingers felt like pure ice against his skin; ripping the unbearable, sexual head from his body and casting it aside in the kind of way you would only expect from a Goddess. So, that was the touch of a woman. The thing that his father spoke so fondly of. How Xander had longed for that same soothing ability (for Camilla’s impossibly clear eyes and his mother’s soft and round body). Perhaps then, before any of this could have happened, Xander could have simply taken his cold hands and carved the ill intent from his father’s body.

“Why is there so much metal inside of it?” She asked it so innocently that Xander burnt with shame.

“I’ll tell you when you’re older.” His father replied.

Xander had thus wanted to do something defiant, to fight back, but had neither the strength of will nor body to do so. He merely moaned as his father pushed abruptly into him, struggling to hide his face with his hands.

“Father, please, touch me instead! I can not bear the grasp of a woman!” He said it oddly through a slack jaw and full of spit with mixed intentions. Then again, when are his intentions not mixed? When is he not motivated by a deformed libido and unsteady sense of honour and nobility? He doesn’t know what he wants and didn’t know it back then either.

No. He supposes that he had wanted to be cherished (regrettably, he still wants to be). Loved. For his father to place him above Camilla, above the remaining consorts, above even the memory of his mother who was so beautiful and clean; just like Camilla used to be and just like Xander could never be.

He felt grinding and thrusting all the way to his stomach; painful and wonderful at the same time. It started to chip away at the last bits of his resistance - his self indulgent, foolish thoughts and reasonable sociability - and replaced it with unforgettable pleasure. It was almost enough to make him forget even about Camilla’s hands wrapped around him.

“Don’t be so cold Alexander. Camilla loves you so much that it’s only fair for you to allow her to participate.” Camilla pressed her fingernail ever so slightly into the opening of Xander’s urethra and he bucked. “She? She’s already learnt your weak points.”

Ecstasy tore through Xander’s body like paper and a violent shaking overtook him. Words turned into gibberish and his eyes were covered in such a heavy haze that he swore he couldn’t see a thing.

And then it stopped.

“Why?” It was too late to stop by this point. Xander was reduced to a senseless piece of meat; unable to understand anything like love (so how did he expect to redeem himself?).

“This isn’t a punishment Alexander. It’s a reward. Just a different one than I had initially promised.” His father lifted him off his cock and onto the bed. “Camilla, strip down.”

She did so readily, discarding her already damaged shirt and bra before Xander’s mind could even register what was happening.

“Father please! I’m begging you! Don’t look at anyone else like you look at me!” Xander spoke frantically. His stomach hurt so much.

You know? If Camilla and him were born in a different order, if she had the strength that came with age, she would have killed their father before he so much lay a hand upon Xander. She would stay pure. Not like him. If someone were to ask Xander tomorrow to fuck a pig in return for the words “You looked cute.”, he would do it. If they were to even ask him to peel all the skin off of his jaw so you could see all the teeth and muscle in his mouth without having to open it, well, he’d do that as well.

“Don’t be so childish, Xander.” His father is a kind and gentle man that knew full well that he had no right to call Xander that. “But I will fulfill my word. I will not lay a hand on her. However, you will.”

Kind does not mean gentle and gentle does not mean good. Those three concepts exist in a space all their own, only tangentially related to one another.

“You see, you’ve been treating her so poorly tonight where she merely wants to join in on our family bonding. But you are such an afflicted young man that you can’t understand that.” His father’s hands were so gentle and he speaks with such a kindness.

And since Xander needed someone to love him like that, he did nothing but purr like a cat as his father ran the back of his hand against his cheekbone. Nor did he do anything beyond grin as the inside of his thighs were snapped open again.

“I don’t blame you for that Xander. Not for your sensitive heart or your filthy urges nor even your childish behaviour. Those are your mother’s fault and my own for being unable to show you the kind of love that you so desire. But I have so much work to do and can not be the only one that you cling on to.”

“I have no interest in women.”

“I am aware but I don’t doubt that you’ll make an exception for your beloved little sister.” And just like that, maggots devoured what remained of Xander’s determination.

Yet, that was not what had been lost that day. No, Xander’s ability to resist had already been taken years before his father had started on him. You could even say that Xander had given that away. Regardless, the only thing that remained of it was a rotten corpse, locomotive through sheer force of misery alone.

 Camilla crawled onto the bed beside Xander. He wanted to say something to her, he can’t remember what, but could not find the words - only her gaze. It was so warmth.

“Don’t worry Xander. I’ll make it feel very pleasant.” She spoke the way her mother did; with a sultry tone and a smile on her face that was slightly wrong.

Xander smiled a cracked smile back. In that moment, they understood one another completely. Hidden behind regret - in her vibrant eyes that were gradually losing their shine - Xander saw the seeds of an innocent corruption. It was build up of remorse at Xander having to suffering by her side and disgust in the weakness of allowing it to happen but with more than an eighth of desire to it. He supposes that she must have seen the same thing inside of him but it isn’t as if he’ll ever know. Ultimately, their understanding was lost as soon as their gaze had broken. And anyway, it is not like anyone can really understand each other anyway.

Camilla forced herself down his shaft with the tightness of a vise, taking Xander aback (he had returned to that dreamlike state once more).

“It’s really big.” Xander couldn’t help but laugh at the statement.

By that point, it was painfully obvious that her sole experience with sex until this moment was either watching one of the guards having at it with some prostitute or reading literary erotica. It was quite endearing.

“Did you get that from a whore or one of your lewd novels?” The two of them made a world together, one built up of fantasies and thick masks so they did not have to see each other’s true selves.

It was a situation that could only be described with the knowledge of the future. A sharing of disassociation from their unpleasant situation and wearing the faces of previous encounter, in Xander’s case, and novels in Camilla’s. And it was effective for it pleased both their father and kept the burden from weighing too heavily on their psyche. The two of them could wake up the next morning and pretend it didn’t happen. Until of course those masks became affixed onto their faces so neither of them could recall how it felt to feel normal anymore but that is beside the point.

“A little of both.” Xander grimaced in pain as Camilla shook her hips up and down. A vise is, after all, not typically a tool used for pleasure. “However, I am not lying when I say that it is quite large. It hardly fits inside of me. Or perhaps I am just small.”

“I wouldn’t know either.” Liquid ran down from Camilla’s crotch to Xander’s; a sticky, warm fluid that filled the room with the scent of copper.

“So you were a virgin after all.” Their father said so with a smile in his voice. “Alexander gave his away at such a young age that I feared for you. But knowing that you have managed to stay pure above all else… Well, I certainly have hope that your ego can still be redeemed.”

Xander closed his eyes and let the pleasure break through the pain (as it always does). He held tightly onto Camilla’s hips, so that his fingers left imprints in her soft skin, and let her bounce up and down to her heart’s content. She must have been hurting so much.

Something violated the inside of his mouth, pushing through without meeting any opposition. Xander returned it; stroking up and down his father’s tongue with a certain amount of sensuality.

Regrettably, that alone was enough to make him come. More likely, his body simply wanted it to be over.

“You orgasmed already, Xander?” Their father pulled away, trailing saliva behind him. Xander almost missed the sensation. “I’ll have to train you so that you can handle penetrating as well as penetration. If you’re to become nothing more than a whore, I’d like it very much if you were to at least be good at it.”

Xander wasn’t listening.

 

***

 

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” The statement brings with it a sneering that is harsher than frostbite.

Xander instantly knows that it’s Jakob and feels almost relieved for it. Jakob can, at least, recognize when Xander requires punishment and when he does not and will not hesitate to inform him of this in the most humiliating way possible. Unfortunately, Jakob can not quite deliver the amount of physical suffering that is required to begin healing Xander’s sins but who is he to hold it against him?

“Pardon me?” But for some reason, Xander feigns ignorance rather than taking his punishment head on.

He attributes it to both wanting the conversation to be lengthened out and the embarrassment felt at doing something that dreadful to Corrin. I mean, he’s no better than his father at this point, is he?

“I’m talking about your fondling of Lord Kamui, moron!” Jakob pursues Xander down the hallways, matching his pace exactly.

“What of Corrin?”

“Don’t play the fool with me Xander. We are both already aware that the first thing Lord Kamui does in the morning is speak to me so as soon as you left, he told me all about your… inability to keep your hands to yourself. And don’t think of denying it as I will always believe my Lord over a pervert like you.” The harsh reality stabs into Xander’s bone marrow like a dagger.

It infects his cells with a mix of shame and amusement, reminding him of exactly why he keeps Jakob around in the first place. After all, Jakob is the only person that is capable of loving the Corrin the way that Xander does. If Xander were out of the picture, he does not doubt that Jakob would simply take his spot as Corrin’s captor. So no matter what happens, there’s no way that Corrin will ever be truly free. The concept is frankly, hilarious.

“If you are asking me to describe my honest state of mind then I would suggest accepting a non-answer. I do not know what my thinking process was and therefore, I can not describe it to you. I simply felt an anomalous urge to violate and destroy and felt my very soul being forced into that direction before I regained my rationality and stopped myself. Nothing more.” And part of Xander wants to believe that.

Yet another part, one that burns with an amazing sensibility and turns his brain sluggish and heavy with the sound of the distant rain, does nothing more than smile gracefully. He can no longer ignore nor resist this need and it knows full well that he’s about to surrender to it. But first, he has to see Ryouma.

“What bullshit.” Jakob laughs in such a haughty way. Unbefitting for a man of his station but suiting his personality to the utmost. “Tell me the real reason you deviant or I swear on Lord Kamui’s name that I’ll kill you here and now.”

“Please, take no offense to this but I highly doubt your ability to go through with such a plot. Besides, even if you could, by the time you leave this room, you’ll be dead and Corrin will be friendless again. But I will try and answer more truthfully although I am not sure what I will say.”

“I’m listening.”

“I suppose I might have done it because I am incapable of separating sexual desire from my other emotions. Or that I did it because there is something hideously wrong with my brain for reasons and unknown and I am trying to cope with this in the only way that anyone had ever taught me how. Or I simply like to suffer and bring suffering and it pleased me to contemplate destroying those eyes that do not understand the depths of my sorrow and those legs that had never known violence. Or just maybe, I did it simply because I was horny and couldn’t be bothered to walk all the way to Ryouma’s cell floor. I honestly couldn’t tell you which one of these answers is correct. In fact, I’m unsure if any of them are or to what degree so feel free to choose whichever theory satisfies you the most.” Xander socks himself with the earnestness of those answers.

They are a collection of motivations and deviancies that he had barely even considered and yet, fit so well within the person he was born to be. It’d be so much better if he just died here than continue such a miserable existence. All he ever does is ruin himself and others with no real purpose or endgoal beyond the nebulous concepts of ‘revenge’ and ‘happiness’. What kind of life is that?

Ah but you see, he is too weak to kill himself and only has the strength to live on so that worm inside of his brain - growing every day - will devour those last few parts of Xander that are clear and pure. Soon, there would be anything left of him.

“You’re worse than I thought.” Jakob remarks. “At first, I had thought that you were some kind of sadomasochistic sex addict, forcing your sickening desires on Lord Kamui and Lord Ryouma but now? I’m above ninety percent certain that you are mentally disturbed. Pray, tell me, is there any reason at all that you act this way or were you merely born a demented shell of a man?”

Well, that certainly is a question that needs to be answered. Quickly, the majority of Xander comes to the conclusion that he was simply born this way. That his curse of living is the result of his mother’s sensitive heart and his father’s strong will devouring one another, leaving the remains as a twisted wreck of spirit. But there is a part of him that wants to blame his father’s raising skills as well. He could have held Xander more tenderly, said sweeter words, threatened Camilla and Leo less. He could have simply been just a bit gentler while smashing Xander into shards. Then, maybe, Xander could have grown up to be gentle as well. Perhaps he could even hold Corrin without replaying those scenes. Maybe he could look at Laslow while weeping.

“You consider Gunter to be a father figure correct? To make up for your giving you away?” Xander asks.

“What does this have to do with anything?” Jakob seems more angry about the change of subject than the memories of his past. That must say something about him but Xander does not know what.

“Ask him then. He knows more about me than anyone else.” He completes the sequence for opening the door before his sentence. Before he realizes what happened.

He must be getting better after all.

“In fact, you ought to ask him now. I would like to be alone for the time being.” Jakob’s already gone by the time the words come out but Xander continues according to script regardless.

“If you wanted to be alone then why are you here with me?” Already, Ryouma’s arrogance bears itself like fangs.

He speaks with more sarcasm than a man in nothing but a white blouse and panties ought to. Although, Xander can hardly say he’s disappointed. He is growing upsettingly attached to Ryouma’s darkly dripping defiance. While Xander may want to defile it, there is still a quiet allure that seduces him into not doing anything overly brutal.

Today, he intends to change that.

“I see that you are feeling particularly scathing today. Do tell me, did you enjoy yesterday’s session? Is the feeling their rough hands against your body still lingering? Do images of your defiling flutter about your mind so that you fear sleeping for the return of those memories? Do you stand idly in your room, half dressed, replaying the same scene over and over again?” The words come through without restriction, flowing like water through a drain.

“Are all of those questions meant to be answered or are you simply trying to upset me?” Ryouma smiles with an expression that Xander can neither name nor match. It certainly flirts with pride.

“You think in binary, High Prince.” Stiffness returns to Xander’s dialogue (it’s a defense mechanism but you probably already knew that). “Often, things can not be answered with a simple yes or no or choice of two options. Instead, the answer is hidden between the lines and eyes of the asker and answerer. In this particular case, I want to know, to the point where the very fact that I do not know is bringing me suffering, the effect that this event had but I also want to see you in pain. For it pleases me.”

“It is rather unfair of you to ask me questions when you refuse to answer any of mine.” There was that expression again.

It sets some long dead part of Xander ablaze (not so innocently); a fire that threatens to keep swallowing until there is nothing left. No doubt that was Ryouma’s intention.

“Are you so conceited that you believe you have a right to ask such a thing of me?” Xander’s eyes are wrong; tears beckoning at them for no real reason at all. “The fact that I had not taken your body and turned it into a senseless lump of flesh, unable to understand anything like love, is a testament to my mercifulness. In fact, what’s stopping me from simply tearing off your arms and legs? Reducing you to nothing more than your most base impulses of breeding and eating; a toy for the relief of my pent up sexual aggression? A beast that knows nothing more than what feels good and what does not? It would take care of two of my problems. Your body, which has become an eyesore, and the issue of Corrin. I think that he would, if you were gone, become mine and mine alone.”

“Xander, stop.” When did they switch to using proper names, anyway? It seems horribly uncivilized. “You are not capable of such a thing and what good is there in pretending otherwise? Is it because you want to intimidate me or because you’re trying to convince yourself that you are capable of such evil against me? Either way, this remains the same: You are a broken husk of a man, unable to adequately communicate your pain so you lash out. Unfortunately, you - for some reason - can not strike out against whoever’s really hurt you so instead you take it out on the few people who can even truly understand you.”

“Are you implying that you understand me?”

“It’s not an implication but rather, a statement that I do or at least, that I can. If you are willing to let me. For it is I and I alone that can understand both your burden of royal birth and the sorrow at being forced into your father’s war before you were even old enough to sprout hair on your chin. More than that, your love for Kamui is the same as my own and we share disgust in that. In fact, at one point, I had debated killing myself for his sake.”

And if Ryouma had, none of this would have happened. Once again, it’s all his fault.

“But he stopped me and stayed my hand, claiming that his love for me was so deep that he would die if I did. After that, I realized that the dream I had - where I woke up and he was beside me, while it may not ever come true - was still beautiful enough to live for. Though, that probably doesn’t make any sense. I just… perhaps one day when the two of us have passed on to a distant land, he and I could love each as far more than brothers. From the way that you look at him, the way that you spoke about him with me, I had assumed that you had the same feelings. Though, that may simply be me projecting myself onto you.” Ryouma smiles once more but this time, there is something that Xander marks down as regret.

Something as wistful as the mist that rises over the Hoshidan seas. Perhaps they are similar in some ways. But not the point of understanding. Not yet, anyway.

“My love for Corrin is not the reason for my misfortune and to think so is in and of itself, a demonstration of how little you understand my way of life. While our loves may be similar in their depravity, their result is ultimately quite different. I have a courtly sort of passion for him; he is an ideal of whom I can never obtain but still take pleasure in serving. And I am content with that. But you clearly desire something more than that, something like affection, and that is what brings you pain. The dissonance between what you want and what is possible. But really though, this is just a way to avoid my questions, isn’t it?” There is a stiff silence. “Are you a masochist Ryouma? Do you want to have your body broken down and your spirit eroded? Is the act of sullying as dear to you as an old friend?”

“If I was a masochist, which I assure you that I am not, it would be as a result of the drugs you’ve been forcibly injecting into me rather than my own natural self. What do you think you’re achieving by changing the subject? I said that I had the possibility to understand you at least, not that I currently did. Why are you not allowing me to attempt to do so?”

“Don’t act as if it is a personality flaw that belongs to me and me alone when every time I ask you something, you attempt to turn it into a reason for lecturing me on my inferiority in comparison to yourself. Why is that, anyway?”

“Did you ever think that maybe I do it so that I can better come to understand your way of thinking? And besides, isn’t it hypocritical to point out me being a hypocrite when you’re literally doing the same thing as we speak.”

“My God Ryouma, are you incapable of--”

Blood seeps from a hole in Xander’s arm. A red ooze like tar, bubbling forth from some forgotten corner of a road, seeps from his puncture wounds and onto his shirt like lubrication. Xander’s fingers tremble inside of it as if it were a hole to fuck, pistoning in and out and gaining pleasure from that.

Xander watches the door with some measure of anxiety, unable to do anything as the handle is jiggled and turned persistently.

“What’s the matter with you?” Ryouma asks; completely missing the point as per usual.

The scent of rotting meat drifts from the slowly opening door. It’s disgusting. So Xander shoves another finger into his gaping track mark and swirls it around in there. Because he’s aroused of course. Because he’s a whore.

“The door.” The only word that he can manage to choke out.

Ryouma can not understand his way of speaking or thinking at all. There is a divide between them that goes farther than cultural differences or even ego. It is simply a difference in circumstances (if their positions were changed, Xander thinks that Ryouma would have the kind of love that only beasts do, that he wouldn’t admit his feelings until the end) and in mentality. That’s why, even after all of this, Xander doubts that Ryouma could ever really understand him. But it would be nice if he could.

The door opens regardless of Xander’s feeling or the pain inside of his arm but it is a relief. It wasn’t who he expected.

“Were you boys in the middle of something?” Camilla asks with a knowing, sultry smile.

She stands there in shiny black boots that reach her thighs (either rubber or leather, Xander can’t tell) and a fur coat (hastily patched together with the fur of at least five different animals) that hangs around her knees. Xander doubts she’s wearing anything beneath it. In her left hand, there is a Tome - thick with the set of static crackling off it - and in her right, a military grade duffel bag that clacks and jangles with the slightest of movements. It’s her ‘toybox’ in bag form, clearly. Although most likely significantly reduced in content. He ought to get one for himself.

“No, Camilla. We were merely having a discussion regarding our philosophies and mutual adoration for Corrin.” Xander explains. “Why are you here?”

“Don’t make it sound as if I’m not wanted darling… I had only wanted to play with you and your new pet.” Camilla pouts. “But if you want me to leave, well I suppose I--”

Xander, impulsively you could say, pulls her into a hug.

“I would never want you to leave, Camilla. I was simply shocked that you had appeared without forewarning. Actually, for a moment, I had actually mistaken you for our father.” He hadn’t meant to say that but the emotions sneak out regardless.

And Camilla reads them like a book, analysing every thought and word. Because she can understand him in the end, can’t she? Because she shares his circumstances. So even if they do have that communication barrier, they can at least share a conclusion.

“You’ve still another day before his arrival so don’t worry yourself. So let’s just have fun for now. We can think about such stressful things some other time.” She returns his embrace; squeezing so tightly that he wouldn’t be surprised if a few ribs had cracked.

“Princess Camilla.” Ryouma cuts off the sentimentality before it grows into a cancer. Xander ought to thank him for that. “It’s good to see you again.”

That gratitude is shattered when, like the conceited pig that he is, Ryouma puts his hands around Camilla’s waist. Like he owns her. Does he really not know any bounds? Only stopping once all that had belonged to Xander belongs to him?

 _“What did you expect, Alexander? You already know of the humiliation and theft that comes with daybreak so why would it be any different now? You said yourself that Ryouma is as the sun; an unbearably handsome force of nature that radiantly bears down on the Earth, doing as it so pleases. But you, as the pure white darkness, you can see past that can’t you? You see the sunlight for what it really is, you see Ryouma for what he is. A senseless brute who has no way to redeem himself.”_ Xander greets the worm inside of him as a lover, not even whimpering as it tears his brain to shreds. _“If you make yourself even more pure then surely, you’ll be able to resist even the allure of his beautiful body. You, my beautiful darkness, shall thus embrace all that you have ever longed for.”_

“Flattery won’t get you anywhere my Prince.” Camilla laughs.

Ryouma, with the sense he was born with, takes a step backwards.

“Do you want to know of all the gruesome tortures in store for you, dear?” Camilla continues with the same condescending tone. “I’ll describe them to you in excruciating detail. The kind that puts you in agony before I so much as lay a finger on you.”

 She steps towards the wall, grinning madly as it bends and creaks before her, as it opens into the same hole that the three of them know so well. Xander enters behind her, unable to stop himself from staring at that hateful room. Something has changed inside of it. It is, at the very least, far larger than it was before with a good deal of future replaced. A table is lodged to the centre, held down with nails, and covered in tight leather straps (it’s about Ryouma’s size) with the old one replaced with something more suited for a parlor. Additionally, the bathtub has been filled to the brim with water and appears to have been replaced with a deeper, clawfooted one. Beyond any of that, there is simply something unnervingly unfamiliar although Xander can not place it. Something that broadcasts _“This is no longer your prison.”_ to him and he does not know how to feel about that.

“Camilla, did you change this room while Ryouma and I were occupied yesterday?” There is freedom that climbs out of his mouth and with that, there is fear. The kind that he can not and does not want to go about digesting.

So he ignores his feelings and continues on as according to his script.

“Why yes, I did. It looked so bare after father sold off the furniture so I took the liberty of patching it up. I even cleaned the blood off the floors.. Well, Beruka did that while I recommend techniques but it really just evens out to the same thing, yes?” Ah but can Camilla’s superior techniques clean the memories out of Xander’s skull like inflamed tissue? .

It was a silly question to even entertain. Since no matter what Xander does or does not do or how obedient or disobedient he becomes, the walls will still be stained with the sounds of his boyish screaming and the ground with kind of agony that one doesn’t even dream of. And thus, even if the room were bleached or torn to pieces and set at sea, in the fibres of the stones, those two things will remain.

“You filled the bathtub.” Xander crawls beneath his words as if they are some sort of barrier. As if they can protect him from from either himself or the smell of rotting meat the seeps out from the mortar of this room.

“And that brings me to tonight’s plans.” Camilla smiles in the sort of way that sets a chill running down your spine.

It is so much more beautiful than those innocent eyes she used to have.

“Tonight, for my entertainment Prince Ryouma, you will be electrocuted using my Lightning Tome in a sequence of five. Each time I shock you, I will use increasing amounts of magic to skyrocket the effect on your body and mind. In between that Xander will drown you in the bathtub until he thinks you can’t stand it any longer and will then remove you. At that point, you will probably feel like you’re going to die and it will be really scary but don’t worry, I’ve brought twelve Concoctions that I will use if your heart stops so you definitely won’t die!” She says it with a maternal expression on her face, something that you would expect from a Saint.

“Wha--” Ryouma stutters.

“But there are some rules to this as well. For example, if you pass out, vomit or piss yourself, beg for me to stop or make any motion that I can consider as surrender of the body or mind, I will shove this,” Camilla pulls a large metal dildo, covered in spikes, from her bag. “Up your ass.”

“My dear Camilla, that is not nearly enough of a punishment for something like surrendering. I recommend that we prioritize the psychological instead. So, if Ryouma gives way, I will inject him with twice as much of the Witches’ Hammer than usual and cover his entire body in Lilim so that it may become little more than a tool for sexual pleasure. We can still use that metal cock though, if that’s what you’d like.” Xander adds.

“That’s absurd! There’s no way that I could survive, much less cope with, such things!” Ryouma objects.

“I see. So, you yield already?” Xander asks.

Camilla reaches into her bag and produces a syringe.

“Well, not everyone can be as strong as us, Xander.” She smile as she takes a tight piece of elastic cloth from the bag as well. “Which arm do you prefer darling?”

“Damn it!” Ryouma has such a lovely voice. So powerful, even whilst screaming. It reminds Xander of stripes. “I’ll do it. Just keep that thing away from me.”

“Then strip. Those clothes are far too expensive to ruin so casually.” Xander requests.

Ryouma slowly begins to unbutton his shirt. Thereby, Xander is unable to keep his eyes off Ryouma’s body, running them from the navel piercing (which has healed quite nicely) up towards Ryouma’s breasts (even softer than they were just a few days ago). It is a cycle of longing.

“Now that these have healed, I feel that I ought to replace them with something more ornate.” Xander runs his fingers across Ryouma’s chest, twisting the rings embedded in his nipples before releasing. “What do you think Camilla?”

“I’ve got some very cute golden rings that I bought for Beruka. But since her nipples are so small, they didn’t fit too well so I put them away in storage. None of my new toys look good in them either. Well, okay, the old woman looks kind of cute but I’d hate to waste such nice things on her. Especially when she won’t stop biting.” She replies.

“Wait? What do you mean by toys?” Ryouma asks.

“The girls we captured, idiot.” Camilla says. “That old woman, the archer with those wonderfully pouty lips that feel so good around my cock and that spear woman that spat in my mouth. Hmn, I’m starting to think that I have a bias towards girls with blue hair.”

“Xander you bastard! You told me that only Yuugiri and Setsuna were captured women so who’s this third girl?”

“I don’t recall saying that they were the only ones that were captured, only that they were the ones I intended to release. Besides, Madamn Yuugiri refused to leave until she was sure that you were secure. In fact, she attempted to take your place and when that failed, proceeded to try and attack Camilla with a shattered fragment of a teacup. Or so I heard.” Xander peels back the lace covering Ryouma’s body, exposing his cock to the air.

It is already slightly hard.

“My, we haven’t even started yet and you’re already this hard.” Xander places a kiss against the shaft, exciting Ryouma even further.

“Release all of your prisoners you bastard!” There is a pause as Ryouma writhes beneath Xander’s touch, a moment of realization.“What do I have to do for you so that you’ll indulge in that?”

Well, he’s learning at least.

“Don’t worry about that, Ryouma. For once in your life, that is a burden that you do not have to bear.” Xander answers.

“And if you ask again, we’ll skip right to the drugs.” Camilla says.

Ryouma discards his shirt on the ground, exposing himself in entirety.

“Do you plan on strapping me down?” He asks.

“Of course.” Xander replies. “Sit down in that chair please.”

And Ryouma does for he has no other options.

Xander straps him down to the chair with a swift series of motions. Binding the leather and metal so tightly around Ryouma’s biceps that the circulation is surely and visibly hindered.

“It’s going to prove difficult unstrapping and restrapping him every session.” Xander remarks. “Should we use magical bindings instead?”

“No this is fine. I can simply snap them open and closed with a word, darling. Keep going.” Camilla replies.

 Xander laces Ryouma’s legs and neck just as tightly (there is the passing urge to run his tongue against Ryouma’s collarbone and down, licking off the light sheen of salty sweat that has accumulated). Camilla grabs Xander by the shoulder and pulls him away from where the lightning might arc. He’s almost disappointed.

“Fry.” If Camilla is saying it, even an unsophisticated term like that sounds as beautiful as Hoshidan poetry.

 _“Don’t act as if you don’t hate her._ ” Xander desperately tries to drown out the soothing voice of his demon but the feeling of hands spreading his legs stops anything more than desperation. “After all, that’s why you didn’t really try to save her, isn’t it?”

He wants to shout about how that isn’t true, about how he tried so very hard but his skin hurts so much. It feels like it’s being rubbed raw.

“ _That’s why you enjoyed it so much, isn’t it? Because you wanted, more than anything else, to have her irrevocably stained so that your father would never love her as much as he loved you. And it worked, didn’t it? Since that day, he always told you how much more he wanted you than her, how she was just a toy to him. Not like you. You were his little soldier, right? Own up to your sins Alexander. Grow ugly in them.”_

Ryouma jumps. His body writhes with static; hands twitching, eyes flickering. The image Xander’s salvation from himself; so intense that he might grow addicted to the sight. But as electricity, the portrait is over in a flash, existing only inside of Xander’s permanent memory. Ryouma’s body thus lays there covered in sweat but nothing more.

“Was that all?” The words burst out with a cough. “Rajinto has shocked me harder.”

“I didn’t think that you were one for machismo, Ryouma. Or is it simply that your mental state has begun to deteriorate?” Or, God forbid, he’s putting on a show for Camilla.

Most men act exceedingly stupid around pretty girls. Xander knows that well (and if he didn’t know before, meeting Laslow certainly taught him) and Ryouma’s never said he liked men exclusively so it serves to follow that he is also capable of suffering from the curse of a woman’s touch. It’s unfair. How Ryouma, who you must understand was the one who wanted all of this to happen anyway (Xander recalls intimately the feeling of Ryouma’s fingers brushing over his hand at that treaty; Ryouma’s breath against his neck) would choose some girl over him. Xander wants to vomit.

There is the abrupt snap of fingers. A call to action.

Xander shoves Ryouma’s head below the surface of the water with a force so great that it causes the liquid to spill onto the ground and soak the cell below it. Ryouma thrashes about, struggling to pull himself back out with the kind of strength that only a body convinced it’s dying possesses. Actually, come to think of it, Xander hadn’t really given Ryouma a chance to take a breath, had he? Ryouma’s lungs must be burning.

You see, Xander is quite familiar with drowning. In fact, Leo’s harsh mother - who never looked at any of them with anything more than contempt (in the moment of her death, she did nothing more than sneer at Leo, saying not even a single word of hatred) - had tried to drown Xander in the bathtub when he was just thirteen. Since there, he’s been so phobic of the water that it causes him tremors just standing at the edge. So now, it just seems fitting that Ryouma’s punished with it although Xander can not say in what way.

He rips Ryouma’s head out by the hair, weaving his fingers into the choppy mane and pulling. There is a spluttering and coughing as Ryouma chokes on the air; his eyes burning red with so many emotions that Xander can’t possibly follow them all.

“How long was he under?” Xander asks.

“About three minutes. Seems that the breathing capacity of Hoshidans is far better than our own. I wonder how long he could go for if given ample warning time.” Camilla replies.

Xander throws their captive back onto the chair and the restraints close shut again.

“Give me a moment of relief at least.” Ryouma coughs water up onto the ground.

Xander would much rather it be vomit. Or blood.

“You could quit if you wanted to.” He replies, noticing Camilla’s Tome opening.

Lightning discharges into ryouma with an intensity far greater than the last. But this time, it comes with a scream. One that cuts through the air like a knife and pierces Xander’s ears like needles. It turns the blood in his veins to ice and his cock into stell. Not just the sound but the image as well.

Ryouma’s body is slowly altering, changing into something that he can no longer call his own. It is distorted with arousal - laboured breathing and flushed cheeks. His cock hangs almost stiffly, growing visibly hard from the pain.

“You got off to that?” Xander asks with a genuine curiosity about him.

“Electricity is similar to asphyxiation in that it can cause arousal even without a fetish. It’s simply a bodily response.” Ryouma bites back.

He had never thought of Ryouma as an intellectual, generally noticing nothing more than his beastly side, but such an observation is correct. Well, correct in so far that it is logically sound.

“You may be correct but I think that we both know that it doesn’t quite apply in your case.” Xander smiles. “I can see it in your eyes Ryouma, you long for a deep agony to engulf you. To be broken without hope for repair. That’s why you keep insulting me, isn’t it? Because you think that I can drive you closer to that fantasy?”

“Now, now Xander, don’t jump to conclusions. If he really is a masochist then it probably doesn’t matter to him if it’s you . But really, there’s no way to know this while he’s still on the Hammer so how about you consider taking him off it? Then you can start to really see his true nature.” Camilla interrupts.

She’s right of course. The only way to come to an understanding of the true self is through withdrawal. Xander himself experience that whilst trapped alone in this room; left with only his thoughts ahdn hands to comfort himself (although it wasn’t quite effective when his shaft had been strapped up so tightly that the only thing that could satisfy him was smashing his crotch against the floor). Eventually, he had found himself scratching his wrists open just to stop himself from going mad and this continued for days upon days. Until one morning, he woke up and stared down at the number of self inflicted wounds and found himself falling in love with them. Soon, he grew to appreciate the pain as the sole thing that brought him pleasure in this tiny room. And he grew drunk off the sensation.

“Listen to your sister!” Ryouma demands.

He really thinks he can order Xander around, doesn’t he? Of course. Ryouma has never known any hardship, has he? If he had then his eyes wouldn’t be able to hold Xander’s reflection. Besides, if Ryouma had suffered then he’d be able to understand Xander and since he can’t, he hasn’t suffered. At least not in the way that Xander has (with hands that will not leave and pink scars tracing up to his hips). Or at the very least, Ryouma has coped with it to the point where it might as well not have been suffering at all. But really though, he hasn’t suffered like Xander has.

With that line of thinking, the process of drowning repeats itself. But this time, Ryouma has a chance to take a breath and Xander has a moment to plan. Not for what will happen tonight, he’s sure Camilla already has something and how is he to intrude, but rather, about the future. About Laslow.

“Was the drowning really necessary Camilla?” He asks after what feels like a few minutes (most likely less considering that Ryouma has not even begun to panic). “It seems like overkill.”

“You’re the one with the fetish for it.” She laughs. “I only wanted to give you an excuse to indulge in it.”

“Fair enough.” Ryouma’s body dances beneath the waves; sucking water down like air.

So it has been quite some time then. Xander estimates five minutes.

He drags Ryouma back into his chair and lets the restraints slam closed. Ryouma doesn’t say anything. He just stares at Xander as if nothing else has ever existed. His eyes are as pure red as wildflowers.

“Burn!” Camilla lets off another shock before Xander’s even fully moved away (it would have been nice if had been struck instead).

It arcs into Ryouma’s body, encasing it in blue and white streaks. This time, Xander finds himself unsure of how much power has been put into the attack but it is far worse than the last.

Ryouma twitches where he sits. Not in the way that one does while in pain, though that’s not to say he isn’t, but rather in the way of muscle spasms. It is the rebellion of Ryouma’s body against itself; a revolution of muscle against bone and organs. The flesh wraps up his knees and elbows until they dislocate and tightens the muscles on his stomach so they resemble a washboard more than gut. A grimance creeps onto Ryouma’s face, with a gnashing and grinding of his molars, as his throat squirms. As Xander meets his eyes, he understands.

He plunges Ryouma into the bathtub, giving his captive ample time to swallow his vomit back down. It seems painfully unfair to let Ryouma fail without so much as a chance to change that. Really though, it’s because it is more beautiful to watch someone surrender after having been given the option to succeed - to sink into despair after having tasted hope. Xander prefers such a thing to all the colours in the night sky.

Ryouma hangs limply in the water with joints too sore to move. His mind must be frying as well as this point; growing sensitive although his spirit may will strength into it. But there’s still some resolve to him. Far more than the average person is allowed to have.

It’s because of this that, against all reason, Ryouma swallows water down like a wish; burning his own throat all the way down to his lungs. The inflammation might never leave. Well, if he thinks Xander will let him go so easily, he’s mistaken. He holds Ryouma’s head beneath there for an agonizing minute, until the resistance gives way to the sexual euphoria that only three things in this world can provide.

Xander throws Ryouma back onto the chair, fastening him in by hand. And for a good reason. You see, Xander is aware that torture immediately after light-headedness is less effective than doing so on a sober and conscious person. Well, that’s obvious But even so, Camilla is a violent sort of woman, so trigger happy that she’d most likely fire immediately which would surely lead to Ryouma’s victory here. Xander won’t let that happen. It wouldn’t be fair if that happened.

_“It would ruin our buzz.”_

Xander steps away as Ryouma’s eyes light up and Camilla launches her assault into his fully aware nervous system. He screams. And so, to some degree of arousal, Xander wonders if today is the day that Ryouma’s body ruins him.

If his lungs are tearing themselves apart. If his heart has stopped beating. If the sole thing running through his mind is the constant droning of pleasure. If Ryouma’s drowning in the air. At the very least, his stomach is ruined. Ryouma hangs forwards as far as his brace will allow and vomits. It spills down from his lips, trickling down in a thin stream, and onto his fully erect shaft. But in spite of that, his eyes are wide open and staring into Xander’s very soul.

“You’re being dishonest.” Ryouma chokes the words out through a swollen trachea. “I know you’re a smart man, Xander. You’ve proven it time and time again. So what makes you think I’d genuinely believe that you don’t know that it’s impossible to retain control over your body at such a high voltage, Xander? Why do you feel compelled to make a bargain that we both know I can’t keep? Do you like disappointing me or is it a fetish of yours to take and take and take with no chance of reprieve?”

Xander’s amygdala twists. It brings forth an emotional memory, buried deep within the surface of his gray matter, forth with the smell of degradation. Not the day to day kind where he feels the eyes of men like Ryouma and Kamui look down on him (with shame and pity so terrible that he just wants to force it back down their throats) but the kind that reeks of his adolescence. Actually, it reeks of Onzoueku. In particular, it reminds him of the far he saw in those - well, let’s admit it, like him they were children - as the soldiers toyed with them. God, they were treated like scum.

 _“Seriously though, if you don’t finish me off, you’ll really die.”_ A voice taunts from where he can not chase it. From beyond the veils of his memories. _“There’s a good boy.”_

And he watched as not even the most sacred was spared.

It tastes like his father, those words. Always offering bargains that Xander naively, but obviously now that he has the hindsight of age, was unable to fulfill but still maintained a smile about it.

 _“I might not get out today or tomorrow but one day, I will get out.”_ He told himself in the way of sensibility. _“That is a reason to live on.”_

But even so, he would be lashed again and lose again and suffer again and his skin would itch and itch and itch and no matter how much he scratch at it, it didn’t feel any less painful or any more clean or save him. Not even his mother’s songs could bring him relief from that pain. Not even her name.

“Give him another chance Camilla. If he screams, we punish him. If he doesn’t, we allow him to remain as is. Without any healing.” Mercy is neither good nor gentle or even kind, Xander thinks. It is something all its own.

“Did his big talk get to you little brother? You know he’s just trying to get under your skin, right?” She laughs. “But if we can do that anyway. If only because I’m curious as to how much willpower he truly possesses.”

Without another breath, Camilla fires a bolt of lightning three times as strong as the last into Ryouma’s right arm, burning it all the way up to his neck with the pattern of a tree’s roots. There is thus some shaking and a further betrayal of meat as Ryouma’s cock retains its erection even while pissing itself but nothing more. At first. Soon, something breaks through the shell that Ryouma has built around himself. A scream that threatens to burst Xander’s eardrums. It is beyond radiant, beyond intense, beyond painful before settling down between ‘Orgasmic’ and ‘Bone Shattering’ if you were to even attempt to measure its glory.

It takes them all aback. Camilla in particular stands there with a look that Xander can not place - merely appreciate - and Ryouma lays limp coated in piss and partially digested food. Xander himself remains as he was but his features have subtly changed towards the look of a man experiencing rapture.

“Goddamnit.” Ryouma laments through a swollen jaw. “Fuck.”

And with that, he falls unconscious.

Xander unfastens the straps and turns to Camilla.

“Should we clean him up or leave him as he is?” He asks.

“Oh darling, you know how much I hate vomit. It’s tantamount to stomach acid as far as I’m concerned; generally not something I want to be fucking in. And besides, we already have a full bath. Why not make the most of it?” She grabs Ryouma and dumps him in there, spilling yet more water onto the ground.

Xander really ought to install a larger drain but that is a job for another time. Perhaps it will be the first thing he does after marrying Ryouma. After all, husbands need handiwork tasks like that.

“I didn’t bring any soap or brushes. I didn’t think he’d just… spit up all over himself.” Xander remarks.

“Well lucky for you, Camilla comes prepared.” She pulls out a set of scrubs from her bag and positions them out on the ground alongside a bottle of liquid soap.

Xander lifts one of the larger brushes and gets to work on Ryouma’s chest. His bile has already started to dry on his chest, proving difficult to remove through scrubbing alone.

“How long do you think it will be before he wakes up?” Xander coats the scrub in soap and continues his word; prying this morning’s beef stew off.

“He’ll be up with an Elixir. I bought one just in case.” She replies, working on Ryouma’s inner thighs. “You should do his groin. I fear I might harm him.”

“You don’t have to give me an excuse to indulge you know, Camilla. I am an adult now. I can decide for myself whether or not I deserve pleasure.” He soaks a cloth in the bath, lifting Ryouma’s hips so they protrude out from the water.

“Xander, sweetie, I know how stressed you get when you do enjoy yourself without permission. Why pretend like you don’t? Is it for the sake of your silly pride?”

“It always is.”

He runs the cloth over the head of Ryouma’s member, peeling back the foreskin to get any built up grime. Ryouma clearly hasn’t been bathing himself; not even in the more gilded showering area. They’ll have to talk about that.

Camilla forces Ryouma’s lips open and pours down the glittering gold liquid, lifting his head so it trickles back into his mouth. His body starts knitting itself back together before the drink even goes all the way down. Joints fit back into their proper alignment, inflammation dies off, Ryouma wakes up.

Xander wraps a piece of tourniquet around his forearm, cutting off the bloodflow, as he searches for a vein.

“What’s going on?” Ryouma tries to pull his arm away but there isn’t enough strength left in him.

“Your punishment Ryouma. Remember?” Xander holds the needle over Ryouma’s arm as irrationality passes over him. “Camilla, it’s been awhile since I’ve had any of this. Would you mind if I used up this dose? Surely you do have more, anyway.”

“Of course not.” She replies.

Xander wraps a bandage around his arm and marvels as bruise already begin to form (bright red and angry). The crook of his elbow is quite sensitive ever since he started injecting there instead of his inner thighs. He shoves the needle in anyway, moaning from the pain before he even has the stopper all the way down.

“What would you say if I suggest we all abuse each other tonight, Ryouma? Our last action before my father breaks your body so you can not recognize your original state?” Xander asks.

“I’d say you’re insane. But you probably expected that.” Ryouma says.

Xander drives the syringe into Ryouma’s arm, into a clunky vein that only Xander has ever touched. How wonderful it must be to have your very blood be clean and beautiful. Left holy by the hands of either God or men or nasty little drugs that turn you into someone completely different. The only downside is that it will take a little longer for the Hammer to take effect. Although it’s not as if Xander minds.

“And what about you, little sister? Do you want to participate?” He asks.

“It’s what I was hoping for.” She lifts Ryouma off the bath and onto the floor, clearing all the water in the room with a simple spell. “What do you have in mind?”

Xander hands a needle to her.

“You take some as well and the three of us can use whatever nasty toys you brought and see how many scars we can leave.” Camilla’s hand is covered in scars but Ryouma, nothing particularly ugly.

Not like Xander (but very much like Corrin who takes after his older brother in the end) whose back is a web of deep scars. A painting made up of deep red scars and pink keloids and little white scars that do nothing more than hurt. That situation is mirrored in patches all over his body but thankfully, without the same connotations. His chest is, to be specific, destroyed from years at being placed at the hemy of the army (who places a child at the helm anyway? Much less a Crown Prince) and his legs from things much darker. In fact, the only part of him that remains unmarred is his face and even that has developed wrong.

It is too slender with cheekbones resembling mirrors more than bone and flesh. And Xander can not remember the last time there was skin on his lips that either he or some lover had not partially bitten off. But here is Ryouma without a blemish beyond what is expected of a soldier. Why, even while being tortured, he is glamourous.

So it’s only fair that Xander be allowed to mutilate that body further. If only for the sake of his own sanity. And if Camilla can feel that catharsis too, if she could suffer alongside him once more, well that just makes it better, doesn’t it? It’s a family bonding exercise then, so to say.

Camilla unzips her bag and sets all inside on the ground. A collection of sin falls onto the floor; a set of knives (sharp and lighter than ice) in a variety of shapes and sizes, a cat-o-nine-tails made of enchanted roses (it smells like meat more than flowers so Xander almost wonders where she got it from) and of course, the spiked toy that Camilla had threatened Ryouma with earlier. Actually, it looks a fair deal like his own equipment although, far less practical. Camilla always has been one for appearances.

“Do they need to be so fanciful?” Xander asks.

Camilla shrugs.

“Beauty wants beauty, darling.” She takes the syringe and jams it into her vein, not even bothering to cut off the blood flow.

By the look of her forearm, it’s been quite a while since she’s had any herself. She must be in agony. Well, it’s a good thing for her that Xander is such a good big brother so as to relieve her stress.

He slices into her arm with a knife barely an inch long. It cuts through her flesh like butter; ripping fat and muscle and skin all the way down to the bone. Blood drips from the wound and onto the ground, looking for the world like juice from a fruit. Xander almost wants to lick it off her.

“Getting excited already?” Camilla sighs. “Oh Xander, you never did do well with the Hammer, did you? It seems to bring out the most disgusting parts of you.”

“You act as if there aren’t there normally.” Hiding beneath his skin and bones from the sun and eyes and… he’s said this before, hasn’t he?

Ah no, it’s that voice that says that. The one that squirms inside of him. It’s his true self, isn’t it? The sensations beneath his skin, the smile that dreams to the exclusion of all else of taking Corrin’s legs and arms and smashing them with a hammer so that all the Elixirs in the world can not repair them. The need to abuse and use that body as he sees fit, becoming the sole person that his brother can rely upon. That’s him, right? That’s who he really is. The revelation is orgasmic with its liberation.

Xander cuts into himself, peeling the skin off his wrist. It will leave another scar of course but he’s beyond caring.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Ryouma sneers (my God, he looks at Xander as if he were an animal). “You’re going to kill yourself at this rate!”

The knife slides from Xander’s fingers, slick with blood.

“I forgot about you for a moment there.” He scratches the wound open further, pouring a Vulnerary on it when it gets too large. He isn’t ready to die yet. “Come, let’s enjoy one another.”

Xander reaches down to touch Ryouma only for the latter to flinch from his touch. Xander supposes it’s only natural. After all, he’s so ugly compared to Ryouma - on the inside and out. But still, it’s kind of upsetting. So it’s only fair that Xander slaps Ryouma across the face. So hard that it leaves an imprint of his palm.

“Don’t you dare look at me like that, scum. Like I’m nothing.” Xander’s voice is no longer his own.

He unfastens his trousers and presents his cock before Ryouma.

“Fellate me.” The demand comes with repressed anger behind it. Something that has been boiling for decades.

Ryouma grimaces at the sight, cautiously opening his mouth and licking the tip. So, it seems that Xander was right with his initial theory. Ryouma truly is dreadful at fellatio.

“His technique is awful Camilla. Do you have any suggestions on how to remedy that?” Xander asks.

“Only practice my dear. Although, I suppose I could coach him if you don’t quite mind.” She replies.

“That would be best. You are superior at both taking and receiving it.” Xander says.

Ryouma chokes on his shaft in spite of only the tip being inside of him. It’s not even touched the back of his throat yet. Frankly, it’s shameful. So the generous Crown Prince helps him along, shoving Ryouma’s head all the way down. The following spluttering sensation is unparalleled in its eroticism. It is simply the mix of carnal pleasure and sadistic hedonism that fuse into something more beautiful than either alone. But even so, without proper backing behind it, there’s no way it could satisfy Xander.

He pulls Ryouma’s head away.

“That felt terrible.” He smiles.

A smile is not the appropriate response for either the action, dialogue or what is about to occur. It is just wrong somehow. He’s still hard.

Xander props the spiked toy up on the ground, practically salivating at how painful it must feel. The spikes are about half an inch long and all twisted with small tags so they’ll likely hurt more than a regular needle. The dildo is also rather thick, rivalling even Ryouma’s massive member, which is guaranteed to cause both more pleasure and more suffering. Xander almosts wants to take it himself.

“Fuck yourself with it.” The order comes with joy behind it. He doesn’t know why since he feels like crying.

Xander feels as if he’s chewing on needles right now. As if the words he is spitting out are nothing more than rogue droplets of blood disobeying his wishes. Yet, this entrapment is also something of a release. An excuse to do all that he has wanted to do unto Ryouma. Damnit.

How is it that he can be both his real self and not himself? Is that possible? Or is it simply that one side to him is the ‘real’ one and he just hasn’t noticed yet? That he is denying the truth? The answer seems so distant.

“Why?” Ryouma doesn’t yet understand his situation.

“Because I said so.” Xander doubts he ever will. “Because I want you to.”

That is good enough for Xander, for Camilla (even for Leo although the boy will never admit it) but not for Ryouma. Nothing’s good enough for Ryouma.

But he does it anyway, motivated by something that Xander does not know. He assumes partially by desire but he knows it goes deeper than that. Maybe it’s even pride. That’s irony, isn’t it?

“Do it slowly.” Xander says although he wants to scream instead. Although he wants to break Ryouma by hand instead. Although he wants to feel an even more real sensation instead.

Ryouma cringes as he positions himself over the weapon (his legs are so muscular and curvy that Xander wants to sit there for hours just running his hands against them all the way up to the thighs and back down again). He sinks onto the metal shaft, biting his lip until blood stains them, sneering as it penetrates him. Immediately, some soft membrane snaps and blood starts leaking from Ryouma’s ass onto the ground but he is not deterred. (he’s growing quite aroused with an erection that matches Xander’s in passion) and sinks even lower. He takes it to the hilt with little more than a grunt (there is so much blood).

“How quaint.” Camilla removes her coat, exposing a body clad only in the skimpiest of lingerie.

She’s wearing a corset, stockings and garters but nothing more; exposing her breasts and cock for either of the men to stare at.

“How about we play a game Ryouma? Since you’ve been so good today.” She ghosts her fingers over Ryouma’s cheekbone. “You only have to fuck yourself with that toy until either I orgasm or you. After that, you can stop. Well, if you still want to.”

Ryouma takes her dick into his mouth, awkwardly sucking on just the tip of it. Again. At this rate, he’ll never get her off.

Xander starts to stroke himself, unable to take his eyes off the blood that runs from Ryouma’s thighs (lubricating both the metal and Ryouma’s ass so the process runs more smoothly than any of them had expected). And with each thrust, he finds both himself and Ryouma growing closer to orgasm. So, it seems they can understand each other to the end. They do both possess this inherently sadomasochistic nature. This kind of frustrated sexuality that doesn’t make sense to anyone at all.

Camilla weaves her fingers into Ryouma’s hair, pulling him gently further along her shaft. He chokes before reaching even the halfway mark.

“Give it up Camilla. His gag reflex is far too sensitive to pleasure either you or I without severe, long term training. He won’t be able to manage it right now. Besides, he’s clearly enjoying himself with that toy. It’d be best to just help him along with that instead of wasting your valuable time.” Xander replies.

“Well, I suppose we weren’t making any progress anyway. Guess I’ll just have to get myself off.” She pulls away from Ryouma, picking up the slack with her own hands rubbing against her shaft.

Xander grabs Ryouma by the shoulders and pushes him down onto his knees. Like a dog.

“Stop.” The request comes out without any of that arrogance that Ryouma once held. Something is breaking.

Xander takes hold of the dildo, cutting his fingers on the rough edge of the bottom, and begins to thrust it in and out.

“I’m not here to hurt you Ryouma. Simply to help you reach your climax before you assist with mine.” These are his thoughts. They are not anyone else’s. This is Xander. At least, that’s what Xander thinks. And such is the folly of man.

He pistons the toy, lapping up the blood that spills from Ryouma’s numerous wounds in the same way that a thirsting man would swallow piss off the dirt. Xander is, actually, licking it off the ground. And his fingers. And the few spikes that are visible without fully removing the object although it causes him considerable pain to do so. With this, Ryouma’s winces and groans of pain quickly turn into moaning and panting. It is an expression of desire that only Xander can ever truly understand much less accept.

“You’re becoming quite honest, aren’t you Ryouma?” He grinds the toy in as far as it will go, drawing out a shriek of pleasure. “At least, your body is.”

“Get your hands out of me!” Ryouma’s anger is smothered beneath his all powerful lust as screams of anger turn into those of orgasm.

He cums all over the floor. It’s dirty now. So terribly filthy that Xander can not help but lick it up while Ryouma watches as best as once can through the hazy lense of orgasm.

“Don’t pass out yet. You have not yet gotten me off.” Xander lifts his captive’s head off the ground, slamming it back down for what might be emphasis but we all know is just sadism.

Blood streaks down from Ryouma’s nose and into the cracks of his lips. It looks like death. It smells like love.

“What do you want me to do Xander?” The question comes out with the sound of defeat behind it. Like the cry of cicadas and the thumping of a head against a doorstop. Like steam coming off a bath and the distant sound of crying. It sounds like this room. “How can I please you?”

And more than all of that, it tastes like victory.

“I want you to strangle me. With all the strength in your muscles and hatred in your soul. Until I am incapable of even begging for you to stop. Can you do that for me? Truly? Without hesitation?” This part of Xander is his true self as well.

It very kindly wants to have a hammer taken to his stomach so Xander can not even eat without feeling pain; to have something dug under his skin so he can not think without pain. It wants, above all else (how many times has he said that though?), to belong to someone. He thinks he might have wanted something very different a long time ago. At that point, he had wanted nothing more than to love and be loved although he did not really care who or by whom.

Was that what had died when he stared at that little body in that little box? Did it force itself out of ears that could not even manage tears? A mouth that was unable to say even a few words of regret or lamentation or hatred (at this world that did it to him in the first place)? Or maybe it hides inside of him like so many other things. If that’s the case, Xander will call it ‘hope’ as it hides along the surface of his perverted mind, waiting to break free.

“There isn’t a lot of strength left in me.” Ryouma says the words like one would a declaration of affection. “But I’ll try.”

He lifts his broken, bloodied body and wraps his hands around Xander’s throat, shoving him onto his back. At first, the sensation is nothing but a heavy embrace around Xander’s neck but then, something changes. Ryouma’s eyes burn red.

His fingers dig against Xander’s throat, pressing into so many arteries that Xander does not even bother to count them.

“You disappoint me.” Ryouma says.

There is buzzing in the back of Xander’s ears and it sounds familiar. With that, there is a lightheadedness and arousal. His cock presses against Ryouma’s and they leak precum onto one another (Ryouma is hard again of course because he’s as disgusting as Xander beneath all that childish pride). Xander flails beneath those hands, basking in their pleasure. It brings it him a beautiful, familiar dream.

 Xander dreams that the sky is aflame with a beautiful indigo that he has seen only once before in nature. Rain pours down, the colour of ink, as the lifeblood of the crickets chirping defiantly in the distance of the satisfied world. It rolls off his skin and down to the ground, feeling the same as fingertips brushing against his hand. He cries for that, tears mingling with the sea of stains.

The rain is aflame with the sound of declarations. So profound and gentle that Xander’s words are lost inside of them. So good that they light his eyes up with reflections; both real and imagined.

“I didn’t want to leave you.” The rain is striking in its clarity. “Really. I… I just didn’t know what else to do. It was so dark and lonely there and my head hurt so badly if I even thought wrong so I shut myself away to a place where not even you could reach me. I’m sorry for that. Since all I did was end up getting myself stuck someplace that I can’t ever really return for and hurting you so deeply. Can you ever forgive me for that?”

“Your apologies are not necessary, my love.” Xander remarks, wishing desperately to become the rain. Is this his true self then? The part of him that smiles solemnly beneath the deep and intense Spring rain? “Merely that you continue to draw breath.”

“Goddamnit Xander, you’re not trying to understand me at all! I’m trying to tell you that I don’t want--”

Xander awakens with a perverted sentimentality wracking his body and euphoria creeping into his mind. So, Ryouma is still too conceited to do it; still clinging to Corrin’s childish ideals. Most likely in the hope that it will somehow result in sex. God, it’s distasteful. So much that Xander comes right then.

“Can you not even hurt me according to me wishes, Ryouma? Not even bend my throat back until I start dying beneath you? Do you hate me that much?” He splutters.

“Kamui would be disappointed in me.” Comes such a simple reply.

Xander stands on legs that can barely hold him, balancing against Camilla for support. From the looks of it, she masturbated to his suffering. Well, what did he expect? She’s as sadistic as her older brother, after all.

“Drink an Elixir and scrub the blood off yourself. When you’re done, come with me back to your bed. I want the three of us to sleep together tonight.” Xander discards his filthy clothes on the ground, sighing at the sight of semen collecting at his groin.

“Let me take care of that for you, darling.” Camilla sits him down on one of the ordinary chairs and begins work on cleaning him off with a damp towel.

She’s more firm with it than she needs to be; rubbing both the cloth and her hands along the head of it in a way that gives off a painful fiction. If he had to describe the situation, he would liken it to a wet rug burn. But, at least, she’s thorough with it and gets it done quickly enough. Unlike Ryouma who seems to be procrastinating. Perhaps he simply doesn’t want to be by Xander’s side tonight? Well, let’s be honest here, who would want to be?

“If you don’t hurry it up, I’ll leave you in here all night.” Xander threatens because he doesn’t know what else to do. He’s so lonely.

Ryouma takes his hands and runs them down between his thighs, scratching dried blood off himself. Then, he takes to scrubbing at his skin until it has turned red and raw.

He swallows an Elixir down in seconds.

“Right. I’m ready.” He wipes the blood from his nose.

So this place is becoming frightening to Ryouma as well. That means it isn’t Xander’s fault that it causes him so much anxiety. It is simply the aura of the room. It’s not his fault at all.

Camilla’s very presence opens the door in front of them and she has no trouble forcing the one to Ryouma’s bedroom open either. As soon as Xander sees it, he collapses into a pile on the comforter, yanking it all onto himself. He feels like a child while doing so. Young and insecure. Camilla doesn’t help either; clutching onto his head like a woman to her son. And Ryouma… just the sound of his breath is peaceful. Xander wants to melt in it.

This can’t continue.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the next chapter, Garon comes home. Hope you're all as excited for that as I am. Also, there will be Leo.


	5. Without Knowing Anything Like Love, How Do You Expect to Redeem Yourself?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What you've all been waiting for: Garon's chapter. Now, this focuses nearly exclusively on his relationship with Xander (it's a truncated version because quite honestly, I could make an entire sidefic based off what exactly Garon did to fuck up his son so badly). We're also nearing our climax so be ready for that. Just three more chapters! 
> 
> And yes, I know it's been late. I've been sick.

In a Sea Filled to the Brim with Noise  
There was a Dog, My Failure of a Self and You

“The only positive thing that I have to say to you right now is that you simply don’t seem to have it in you to hate others. Regardless of one’s station or appearance or what they or have not done for you, to you, you stare at them with those same dull eyes.” His Father’s words dance around Xander’s head in a waltz of malice.

It spins inside of a music box with a cylinder warped with the flames of rage; born from a slight that Xander was not told. Did his father even really know or did he just want an excuse to smack Xander around?

“Why do you that to yourself, Alexander? Are you truly so desperate for comfort that you’re willing to seek it out with any philistine soldier that so much glances your way? Or are you just looking for yet another way to make me angry? Another trick to ensnare me in your web of bizarre sadomasochism? Is it that sexual depravity is engraved into your blood? Is it your only way of understanding love or affection? Do you even know what love is, Alexander? Have you considered the concept? I don’t doubt that Camilla does for she, above all else, saved herself for me while you threw yourself away to that worthless piece of meat that lies on the end of your bed like a kitten.”

Punishment crawled out from the womb of that wrath and ripped and devoured the visceral and spiritual on its way out. It was done quickly and with the same method that a fox has while eating a dove. Messy and ugly and brutal but inevitable if one wouldn’t call it necessary. I mean, the fox has to eat sometime, right? And the population of doves has to be culled by someone, right? And at least Xander gets (was getting) something from it. A bitter, sugared voice with twice the insidiousness of ill intent and the privilege of being needed by someone for a moment. That’s a fair trade, right? It was a fair trade.

But what’s born from rancor besides regret unto regret? Well, hatred naturally but that is never as important as the former. Regret is what had placed Xander against a bed with tears staining his face so red that it was unrecognizable in the darkness of his Father’s bedroom. It was what prevented him from looking in the mirror. What painted an image thoroughly onto his eyelids with black and blue and scars that would not fade. Hatred had never done such a thing to him. It got him beaten, sure, but he wouldn’t object to that.

You see he, had perhaps naively, never minded being used as an object for stress relief provided it was over with quickly. No. Wrong again. He didn’t mind being culled if the ‘population’ required it; if he had done something wrong. But by this point in his life, it crossed that boundary of love and suffering to something miserable. He was becoming a replacement for something he didn’t know, a way to fill a void he couldn’t explain. With that, carried the knowledge that he could in turn, be replaced with anything, anyone else if he disappeared.

“I’m very sorry father, it won’t happen again.” Xander muttered (he hated himself for a minute there because he didn’t have the guts to spit the words out instead).

“Stupid child. You don’t even know why I’m angry, do you? No, you never ever even considered looking at things from my point of view since you’re so content to live in that little fantasy world you made for yourself. You think that if you just apologize to me, I will fuck you and leave, yes?” My Father is a kind and gentle man, Xander repeated internally on a loop (the statement no longer worked; the tiny room was much too cold for them to). “You’re just like your mother, you know. Saying anything and everything to escape having an actual conversation with me.”

Xander said and did nothing in response; lying on his back and staring at the ceiling for body was so wracked with fear of the present and mourning for his lost futures. He was tired.

“Do I make you unhappy, Xander? Do you dislike our games? I can understand that, really I can. You might simply be lying as a way to thoughtlessly escape what you consider punishment. But that isn’t what is happening here, is it? Why would he ask that question if he was just going to decide what Xander wanted anyway? “I think you want to hurt -- for me to hurt you -- that you are trying to coerce me into doing such. Well, I will humour you. I shall do something unspeakable to you; touch you in ways that no one ever has or will again.”

Nails dug into the scruff of Xander’s neck, drawing blood so red that it seemed unreal. You know, that wound never did fully heal.

“Get up. There’s a place that I want to take you to.”

There was a flash of resistance that came with a strangled jolt of pain. There was the concept of taking Siegfried and stabbing his father until there was no longer any meat on his skull and then turning the blade to himself. It passed futilely. For Xander was a dog during those days and his father, his kind and forgiving master. Thereby, there could have been no defiance. Actually, one could argue that Xander was a puppet instead. Taking it a step further by acting only in accordance to his father’s scripts. By being as inert and senseless creature existing solely for the sake of others.

His Father was right. He didn’t understand love back then; starving for it as an animal caught in a trap.

“It’s very cold outside and I am not wearing much. May I get dressed first?” He asked according to a familiar story.

“No, you may not. You have every right to suffer for what you’ve done.” His Father replied without clarification of the nature of ‘suffer’ or ‘deserve’ or ‘done’ but it didn’t really matter much.

Such specification would only lead Xander’s question for affection astray. It would fill his head with ideas that were unnecessary, with complaints. He had no right to whine when being touched with some measure of love was acceptable enough to keep him alive; when he was being offered all that he needed. And it wasn’t as if asking to be loved was asking for too much.

“I understand.” His clothing, an undershirt and boxers, did nothing to calm the stinging cold against his skin but he smiled regardless.

“What’s gotten you in a such a good mood? Are you anticipating what’s about to happen to you that much or have you simply gone dumb from exhaustion?”

No matter what Xander said or did, he knew that his father would take the comments as rebellion.

“I meant only that the cold is pleasant against my skin.” The comment was quiet with the brewing of hatred; so subtle that Xander did not realize it until years later.

His father laughed at it, fracturing the silence of the room. And then he punched him. Immediately developing a bruise on Xander’s stomach; light red with all the anger and sorrow that his father had digested up until that moment.

The pain wasn’t that bad but it carried a heaviness with it. So thick and life altering that Xander started to cry like he was twelve again. Subconsciously, they both saw the future in that moment. And they almost smiled. Or at least, Xander did actually smile. It was likely a sort of defense mechanism.

“Do you think you can just taunt me like that, boy? Manipulate me? Abuse me? Fingers twisted inside of Xander’s neck in place of punctuation.

“Please stop! I never meant to imply that, to do that to you! I love you far too much to do such a thing!” A lie that was really quite true.

For Xander loved his father to the point where he wishes he would just die already. Because he hates his father to the point where he wishes, more than anything else, to be held softly without violence or sexual intent. Just one last time. do that.

“Child, I know you better than you know yourself. Don’t forget that. So, is it not obvious that I would immediately discover that you said those things only because you wanted me to cause you injury. You wanted, want, to incite me to smash every piece of you into shatters. But I won’t do that. Not anymore.” His father smiled in the same way a fox does as well; bearing his intentions and fangs.

He pulled Xander close. So close that the warmth of his breath heated his son’s cheek until it turned pink in the faint light of the moon.

“You’re the same as Katerina.” His voice cracked as if it were breaking but the expression remained almost escstatic. “A goddamned masochist. You really can only get off when you’re in pain, yes? So the only thing that can make you truly repent is something that is without suffering or pleasure. Do you see where I’m going with this?”

“I am afraid not, father. Could you explain it to me in more detail?”

“My, you’re a stupid boy. Naive and dumb as a father’s virgin daughter.” His father brushed a slowly forming tear from the corner of Xander’s eye. “It gives me such an overpowering sense of sympathy towards you that I fear I can not explain myself in detail lest I have to witness your tears. I simply can’t stand that crying face of yours.”

It was a beautiful lie that tucked Xander’s cognitive dissonance inside of it and kept his father from ever having to deal with the consequences of his actions. One day, and they knew it was coming as fast as the dark, Xander would break free and smash his father’s face in with a warhammer. And he wouldn’t stop. Not until he was irrevocably stained with sorrow and his father’s face grew to be as twisted and sinful as Xander’s soul.

People would bicker and war over why he did that for years to come with only the two of them sharing the real motivation. Like a secret. Really, Xander would do it because that would make his father all his, anyway.

“Now, come with me. There is much that I have to show you.”

***

Xander wakes up filthy with itching skin and blood beneath his fingernails. His right arm is a mess of bloody scratches that grow deeper than closer they are to his wrist. More than that, there is the stench of rotten meat that chokes his conscious self. He sneers at his insecurities.

But such thoughts are short lived because today, different from all the of the apathetic days that had come before, Xander wakes up besides a body that he has only dreamt of. It is radiant as all the stars in the night sky with muscles so hard they resemble the torn and battered hull of a warship just retired and faded white scars that dazzle across his darkly tanned skin. Xander buries his face in the nape of Ryouma’s neck and breathes in. The sweat on his skin smells like Xander’s dreams. Like the crying of cicadas and a light, seawater rain. And Xander falls in love with Ryouma all over again.

He places a finger against Ryouma’s lips (their pinkness is remarkable; soft and light like the bud of a rose before being plucked) and strokes their curves with the tenderness of a woman. Xander stares intimately, awestruck by their beauty and the call of blood generated from mourning (it glistens in the light of the dawn). He leans down and steals a kiss, flooding his tastebuds with copper and vomit and a loneliness so painfully soft that even if he wanted to stop, he couldn’t.

Xander drowns himself in that flavour; prying Ryouma’s jaw open to taste the inside as well. He slides his tongue all the way down those disgustingly lovely lips and brushes against Ryouma’s sweat stained collarbone. It is unrepentantly salty.

The pleasure is something beyond words, something that Xander knows he does not deserve but is incapable of resisting. But who does deserve such a pleasure? Beyond Corrin, of course. Ryouma is a God in human flesh; too beautiful and terrifying for morals to touch. No, instead, he is a beast of demonic origin with fur made of sunlight and eyes as deep and poignant as the depths of the ocean. A demon with rough hands that touch Xander with more love than he deserves but teeth like claws that dig into his heart. It’s a marvel that Xander can’t stop gaping at. Like some kind of idiot.

Dear God, this isn’t fair. It isn’t close to being just.

Ever since he was a boy, Xander had tried his best to be a righteous and obedient child. To nurture his clear, adoring gaze and inability to resist others. To stay under control. He would beat his body until his skin turned as calloused and scarred as his father’s hands, until his soul was as immaculate as a lamb, and would gladly take it up again if it meant he could touch Ryouma with his true feelings. But it won’t help, will it? It hadn’t before. For all the pain he took and suffered under, it merely increased his Algolagnia until bloodletting felt like kissing. Until he was thoroughly violated with the joys of self-mutilation.

It would be nice if Ryouma could take Raijinto and pierce Xander’s body straight through. Then he could die in the arms of the man he loves, lamenting the way he had grown up and begging to spend just one more moment together.

Xander lets a hand rest on Ryouma’s bare chest, sweeping up and down his pectorals. He has, ultimately, grown fond of Ryouma. That must be some kind of irony.

“What are you doing?” A question that is asked with more confusion (exhaustion) behind it than hatred.

Xander is unforgivably grateful for that.

“I could not resist your collarbones nor the way the blood has stained your lips.” He replies with less sense than he was born with (certainly, there’s at least three times the madness). “I wanted to kiss you.”

“What for? I thought you hated me.”

“I could never.” Xander can no longer tell if such a comment is the truth or a lie. He is not sure he cares. His brain was on fire last night, you see, and still has not recovered. It probably never will. Ha.

Ryouma sits up awkwardly, struggling to move his - clearly aching - body into the correct configuration for such an act.

“No matter what I say or what I do, there is a piece of you stuck inside of me. The memories of those weeks we spent before all this, simply appreciating one another, have struck my very some with that. No, there is more to it than that. Before we had even met, I had dreamt of you. For a thousand nights. For so long that I had become contaminated with a yearning to live by your side. I fell in love with your description, I think, and the tales of your cruel deeds. You are much better than I could have ever imagined.”

“Have you broken, Crown Prince? Has something suddenly snapped? You aren’t making much sense.” Ryouma asks with a kind and gentle voice - like speaking to a child.

The question comes with a wrapping of sympathy that is held together with red strings of compassion; just barely thick enough for Xander to fixate on. He wishes desperately that he could refer to it as good intent but his unyielding brain knows otherwise.

 _“His voice is disturbingly compassionate and his touches are gentle like silk in spite of those hands and voice having been born for violence; despite his declaration of hate against you and what you stand for. Therefore, in your upcoming world, he must love you more than anyone ever has and more than anyone ever will. Surely more than your Father who has never used you as anything more than a doll. Surely more than Corrin who still stares at you as if you were a rotting lump of psychosis and fat.”_ The voice coos with the irreproachable voice of Xander’s mother.

It brings him to tears.

_“Yet, even if it is like this nor how much you long for it, High Prince Ryouma is not to be trusted. A demon with the strength to love others is still a demon and a villain whom attempts and tempts understanding is still a villain. He was born to destroy him. Do not forget that.”_

Xander is exhausted with the burden of love, with it’s paradoxical nature.

It exists inside of himself as an inherently beautiful and kind trait but he is a man of neither. In fact, Xander doubts that anyone who has used love as their main justification for their actions was a man that possessed either of those traits. You see, love exists separately from the character of a person, far away from traits like ‘good’ or ‘gentle’ or ‘merciful’. It hides inside of that powerfully neutral area of life that belongs to anyone and wants to be used for everything. Xander himself is just using it as an excuse for his behaviour, isn’t he?

He’d like to vomit now but he hasn’t eaten in two days.

“Forgive me Ryouma. I have been exhausted lately.” My bones hurt, he wants to say. Because he has been tired since the day he was born and will be tired since they lay him to rest. Ah, he will probably be tired then too. “I fear sleep deprivation has started to cloud my rational judgement.”

What rationality? Xander knows full well that he has not been lucid in at least five years. More likely, ten.

If he stops talking, he will vomit anyway.

“Regardless, I’d like to formally apologize for how I treated you last night.”

“Oh?” The response is familiar enough to crush what remains of Xander’s ability to compartmentalize.

“While it still remains within both our interests, as well as Corrin’s, to break you into a mere shell of your former self, I have acted disgustingly. You did regard me as a friend once, did you not? And I did the same to you. You’re still important to me, in fact, and I don’t want to hurt you anymore than is necessary. I don’t want to hurt you at all, really. I want you to like it.”

Ryouma brushes a stray lock of hair from Xander’s cheek and tucks it behind his ear. It is the kind of scene you expected to only hear or see in a romance novel or in the poetry of a Count to a Duchess (as his personal rentboy sits on, smiling as hard as he can to stop himself from just… killing everyone in the room). Romantic, Xander concludes. He can not breathe for it.

“We never stopped being friends, Xander.” Ryouma’s voice is the light Summer rain, empathetic and warm. He must truly love Xander. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Just a moment ago, you said that my pain was necessary. That it is what is best for me. But a few days before that, you claimed your motivation as revenge. What I am trying to ask you here is, what’s the real reason you are doing this? Do you even know?”

“Do not treat me like a child, Ryouma. I am nearly thirty years old. I am cognizant. Aware and comprehending of my feelings although I do doubt that you would understand if I explained them to you.” Why was he lashing out against a perfectly innocent question?

Xander supposes it must be that such a question forces him to look intimately at his own fears and mental disturbances. It asks him “Why?” and won’t take “I don’t know. I love you.” as an answer. It makes him wonder if there is actually an answer to that of if he just does whatever he wants whenever he wants simply because it feels good and he is terribly lonely.

He wants to apologize for that. To take Ryouma’s face and crush it so the only thing that can be tasted while they kiss is blood. Until Ryouma can do nothing more than weakly grin at the pleasure of violence. Until Ryouma starts wanting it, too.

Xander should die for thinking like that. He would like to. But it would also be nice if Ryouma could die of making him think like that. Really though, what can be done about his perverted brain? It must be able to be salvaged one day, right? It isn’t too late, right? It was nearly saved once before so it can be again.

“I would like to think that I’d be able to but of course, I can not know unless you let me in.” There is a pause in Ryouma’s face that creeps like darkness behind a closed door with a sticky and unnerving sensation. “Xander, please, I want to understand you. It’s all that I am asking for.”

Xander’s skin is peeling off and slipping onto the floor. When he blinks, it’s back on his muscles again. Ryouma wouldn’t know what that feels like.

“Not now. I’d like to enjoy myself for as long as possible today.”

“What do you mean by that?” There is simply no way that he could. He is simply too sheltered.

That answer tells Xander that.

“I understand, Xander. And I am quite glad that you’ve calmed down some. It must be very stressul dealing with me. I have heard that I quite the handful.” Ryouma laughs, soothing every nerve in Xander’s spinal cord. He did not even object to being called ‘lover’. How… well, there is no word in Xander’s vocabulary to describe that.

And to think, he says this with such a charitable tone despite not even being able to leave this room. He isn’t like Corrin at all. The Corrin who, even before all of this unpleasantry, would be complaining to Xander by now about how he wants to go and play despite the dangers surrounding them on all sides.

“What would you like to do, Xander?” Ryouma asks.

“It is unfortunate that I can not take you out form here. As my Father is returning shortly, there will likely be at least three different operas and five plays in the immediate area that will be held in his honour and I’d very much like to take you all of them. But naturally, I am frightened that you will run from me and he would never approve of such a thing even if you didn’t. So I suppose the only thing to do is stay inside this room. But it’s fine, right? If I am here?”

“My father always did say that company made the event.”

Ryouma sets Xander alive with those words. They turn him into a boy that blushes and falters over each word simply because an attractive man is paying some modicum of attention towards him.

“In that case, I’ll go and take a look around Leo’s room and see if it would be possible to find a chessboard appropriate for our situation. That is, if you know how to play.”

“I am somewhat familiar. At least, I am a fan of Shogi and as they both came from the same Kohgan game, it’s very possible that I will pick up the information without effort. But if it turns out that I don’t, I would be fine with you teaching me. It would be romantic.”

Xander’s spine jumps in the constraints of his flesh with burning striking the marrow with the sensation of insects inside of his nervous system. He bites back a scream of anxiety; a lonely song from the depths of a stomach alive and churning with acid. What he wants to do right now is a violation of his father and their ideals. Of Nohr. But he wants to be happy and he knows that Tyger and Marguerite and laslow would have all wanted the same. And that song inside of him is, ultimately, forsaken by God with its loneliness so Xander can ignore the pain. He scratches quietly at his arms.

“I am sad to say that we do not play Shogi in Nohr but we do have an overabundance of chess and card game materials. I will go and bring you a board now. Pplease, get dressed while I’m gone. Oh, and feel free to wear what you like. Your Yukata and other such clothes, I didn’t get rid of them. So if you look in the closet, they ought to be there.” Xander says.

“It is not a Yukata but I appreciate the sentiment regardless.” Ryouma laughs like the clap of thunder. “Please, be safe on your departure. I wouldn’t want my future husband getting injured for such a silly thing.”

Xander didn’t know what to say to that so he didn’t say anything.

***

“This is it.” His Father spoke through a grin that stretched his face until it was unrecognizable. “Your punishment.”

He gestured towards a large door that stood merely inches away from Xander’s face. It was unfeeling in its purity; made up of cold steel with an iron lock on both sides so strangely shaped that it matched up only to the key that hung around his father’s neck. Xander knew in that moment that there would be no escaping from this place. It had been designed to be unbreakable, untrickable, from the very start.

“I built this room with my own two hands while your Mother was pregnant, you know. It was supposed to house the daughter she had told me I was getting to keep her away from the wandering eyes of men of this castle. A place where my child could have grown without sin. When you were born instead, and Camilla as hardy as she is, I had assumed that such a place was no longer needed and left it to rot.” His Father tipped open the door with one hand, revealing a space that was not a chamber but more of a floor; consisting of a bedroom, a bathroom and a living space.

Upon entering, Xander was immediately struck with nauseousness with the smell of rotting meat and sin. He took a step backwards; unnerved with walls as red as blood and carpeting that reminded him vaguely of viscera. It felt like the room was rejecting his very existence.

“This place is for you and you alone, Alexander! A paradise of my own making where you need not worry about training or those concubines nor even the war! Yes, yes, this is it Alexander!” He violently grabbed Xander and shook him until his head started to spin. “This is the last refuge that may soothe your bloodstained body!”

“It’s lovely, father.” Xander stumbled over his words.

“Of course it is. I built it after all.” His father remarked in a manner that was almost like a joke. “But I am still quite happy that you like it. This will be your home for the next month, after all.”

“I don’t understand.” Did Xander actually understand anything? Surely not the meaning for living on nor the reasons for his affections or even which part of his brain had been fractured in this place.

“Of course you don’t, you lovely, stupid boy. Then I suppose I must explain it to you although it pains me greatly to do so.” Has Xander done anything that did not cause someone pain? “Recently, through a deep examination of your psyche, I’ve discovered that there exists only one form of pain that you refuse to endure. Being ignored. Thus, the only acceptable punishment for what you have done is near total isolation. For a month, I shall leave you here without the assistance or care of either your retinue or siblings. Your means and other such needs will be taken care of my Gunter since that boy has taken up the attention of the rest of the staff. But, as I can not be too cruel to my precious Alexander, I will visit you weekly. Think of it a reward for being an obedient child and staying here.”

“I understand, Father. But I have a question.” Every artery in Xander’s right arm screamed at him to stay silent but what could he do? It was a valid thing to ask. “Please, tell me what I’ve done to deserve such an agony.”

“Are you truly so naive that you can not even understand my anger? What a delicate and pure young thing you are.” His Father ruffled Xander’s hair with one hand, smiling as he did so. “You humiliated me yesterday by taking that mongrel as your servant. In public, no less. My court could not be silent about it, judging me for raising you be such a defiant little shit. For that alone, I can not forgive you.”

The statements were cruel and dismissive but that touch was divine with all of its softness and muddled intentions.

“But really, I am a jealous and lonely old man since the day your Mother abandoned us for the world beyond our dreams. And I need you to need me because of it. But you looked at that loathsome beast in ways that you have never looked at me although I love you this much and toil away for your sake. As your Mother and the whores that have come after her, you deny my love for you for that of a commoner and I can not help but punish you for that.”

Were these spoken out of love or simply meant to bring Xander ever further into his cognitive dissonance? He was aware of both possibilities at the time.

“Father, please, I love you. There is not a single person that I revere above you.” It worked anyway because that was not a lie.

Though Xander hesitated, even now, to claim it was true either. It instead existed in a place that was distant from either of those ambiguous concepts. A void all his own.

“Frankly, my dearest Alexander, you are a lying slut and I can not trust a word you say.” His father made his way towards the door, turning the handle without issue. “But I love you anyway.”

Just like that, he was gone; leaving behind only the crushing sense of loneliness. So Xander slept. What else could be done about it?

***

  
“Good morning.” Gunter’s voice held notes that were striking in their familiarity. Rough and deep with sultry undertones (if such a trait is allowed to be assigned to a man of that age) but not so much so that Xander was comforted by its presence.

The skin on his back was stinging with anxiety, scorching all the way to his neck. It was not, after all, unusual for his father to claim to be sending a soldier or a friend to come up and check on Xander only for reality to prove to be far more brutal. But it was just another unpleasant thing that marked Xander in the end. Nothing worth losing sleep over.

But he still didn’t want to go through it again and so, he did the only thing that he could think of. He laid very still, like a doll, and pretended to sleep. What else could he have done?

“I know that you’re awake.” Gunter said, as if it were reassuring.

Actually, it was but not for the intended reason. Gunter’s voice was that of an ignorant soul, unaware of the pain that Xander had suffered up until now. He doubts the old man had even considered that such things could happen to King’s sons and national treasures. He probably wouldn’t believe Xander if he told. Or, alternatively, he simply assumed that no one with the strength of Nohr behind him would give into the hedonistic whims of another.

Xander certainly gave in. He must have. At least, he had never said no so he might as well have.

“Leave me alone.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, my Prince. The King insists that I take care of all your needs before departing, although I had recommended a butler closer to your age. Or preferably, your retinue. But your father refused all of my advice so I suppose we’re stuck with one another.” Gunter brushed against Xander’s neck with painfully cold fingers (colder than the room and the steel of the door, colder than seeing your breath blow out like white powder).

Although the feeling was not painful, Xander mechanically recoiled like it was. It reminded him of unfortunate things. It stung.

“Don’t touch me.” His saliva felt hot.

It had turned acidic with the weakness in his voice and the hunger gnawing at his stomach.

“My apologies. I hadn’t meant to frighten you.” Gunter smiled. Or as best as one could with a scar like that cutting one quarter of his mouth from the others. “Would you like something to eat?”

“Yes please, Sir.” Xander knocked his blankets off as he sat up.

Incidentally, atop Gunter. Xander stifled a laugh and a sigh of relief. The quaintness of the situation, his father’s stern and no-nonsense servant struggling to pull a comforter off his head, immediately relaxed him. It felt a little bit childish. The good kind. The kind he lost when his mother died.

“You are much shorter than I had expected.” Xander tugged the last of the fabric free in a single, fluid motion and discarded it on the ground. “And far more handsome.”

Xander always did have something of a thing for those old soldiers. There was something about the lines on their faces, singing songs of conquest and fate, and the scars that etched across their bodies like patches of gold that was too romantic to resist. The vague magnetism of their loyalty towards him and their Empire certainly helped. That was something that Xander could fundamentally appreciate. They were replaceable; broken tin soldiers meant to fall and be replaced at his father’s leisure. It made a nice contrast to Xander’s own state as a ball jointed doll (for entertaining guests).

If you were to cut the knot of this psychological process, you might find instead that Xander simply wanted a decent father figure. Or an older brother figure. Someone who was willing to break him and be broken by him. He was willing to cling onto anyone that would show that kind of attention. And what do a collection of angry, lonely men have but that? They would always go back to their real families though.

Xander can not really blame them.

“You flatter me, my Prince. But unfortunately, your perception is wrong. I’m neither shorter than you nor particularly attractive.” Gunter demonstrated the latter with his body, standing at full height.

He was about five inches taller (the distance has since closed to two), and a fair deal broader, than Xander. But not as scarred. Although, Xander did not see any of his markings at the time as he wore long sleeves and gloves during all of their meetings. It seemed as if he were afraid of touching him with bare skin. Naturally, Xander began to intensely hate that style of dressing. It made him feel unwanted.

“I’ll contest the former with you any day but you’ve convinced me of your height at least.” Xander wretched at an unpleasant smell wafting from a paper bag.

His father had gone a long way to make Xander miserable; right down to the choice of food. He laughed for the pettiness of it all.

“It’s beef stew.” No, it wasn’t. “I wanted to bring you something lighter but your father wouldn’t listen to me. He’s stubborn, you know. Like his father before him.”

“Well, I don’t have a determined bone in my body, Sir. So I’ll only ask; would it be alright if I skipped this meal?”

“Afraid not. Your strength is my top priority and I can’t leave without assuring it. But if there’s any way, at all, that I can make this meal more palatable for you, I’ll be happy to do it.” The only thing that Xander wanted was too impolite to ask for.

“I don’t require anything from you.” So he didn’t and took the bowl with both hands instead. “You ought to get back to work.”

“As I’ve said, I can not leave yet. You haven’t bathed and I can’t be sure that there’s ample water for the rest of the day. Were I to leave without checking to make sure those needs are met, well, you’d be in trouble. As would I. I can only see you twice a day as it is and I fear what might happen if I disobey your father’s orders.”

What a patronizing sense of duty.

“I don’t need anyone’s help to bathe, I am a grown man.”

“Seventeen is not grown.” Gunter dragged Xander into the bathroom by his arm and slammed the door shut behind them. For emphasis, perhaps. “Regardless, it won’t take too long.”

“You’re as loyal as a dog, Sir.” He stripped down as it seemed unfair to fight this.

It was not like Gunter wanted to be there so why bother lashing out? It could not have done either of them any good.

“My God, what happened to you?” The question slapped Xander from his thoughts (it hurt with stitching of pity and misplaced fatherly longing).

It mutilated him. Transformed him into a shambling, slowly dying animal begging to be put of of its misery to a person who can manifest little more than simpering pity. That’s kind of funny, actually. Gunter, who was the only person besides Laslow to treat him the this divine kindness (like Xander was worth something!), only did so because he felt bad for him. Because it absolved his own guilt. So Xander was still unwanted.

“Why do you care?” He slid out of his boxers as slowly as one could.

If the old man came to gawk at his freakish body, Xander would give him a show.

Besides, he was already semi-erect in a way that could not have been attributed to solely the climate. Really though, he did it for the sake of having someone look at him. For the purpose of having someone feel something for him. For shocking and horrifying. For seducing. But mostly, because he did not know how he ought to behave around someone motivated by sympathy rather than lust. He enjoyed being abused too much for that. He was too disturbed for that.

“I didn’t mean it like that, my Prince.” More sorrow without a direction explanation. It gave Xander that crawling feeling over his skin. Like he was being used as a replacement for some void in Gunter’s life. “You’re more damaged than I’d expected from the reports of the other soldiers. They had told me that you were unbreakable in combat. Able to handle blows that bring grown men to their knees. So, forgive me if I am curious but where did all those scars come from? Surely, they’re not self-inflicted.”

He wanted to answer with something like “Most of them, no” but that would be disrespectful to his father so he didn’t. It was also what had caused this situation in the first place and he was not excited to see what kind of retaliation committing the same crime would bring.

“Is that really any of your business?” Xander stepped into the bathtub’s scalding water.

It peeled his tainted thoughts like skin off his back. The same sensation that he feels in his dreams. The sensation of taking all of his deformities and maturing them into something effortless in their beauty. Something more like Corrin.

“You’re your father’s business, aren’t you? So I would reckon that you are mine as well as all that he finds important, I do. And he would find this important, I assure you.” So the initial observation of doghood was indeed correct.

Gunter was a wolf with legs bound and snout muzzled; harmless but surely not always that way.

There was a kind of savagery about him that brought Xander to wonder just what kind of person Gunter could have been if his father hadn’t shackled him. The notion played as if on repeat in his head and he grew harder with it.

He dreamt that night that he was a lamb in gold and purple and his old soldier was a wolf in blue with eyes like black fire. Xander was slowly devoured over a period of hours in that fantasy and the two of them made love until the moon sunk into the sky.

“My father already knows where these came from.” He said.

“Is that so?”

“Are you suggesting that I’m lying?” A scrub scraped away the dead skin from Xander’s neck and curved down the skin of his back until it was red and raw.

The action was thus repeated on his arms and legs. Which, coincidentally, allowed Gunter to see the fresh scars mangling Xander’s thighs in all of their glory.

“Never.” He worked through Xander’s tangled curls like they were nothing.

Despite the fact that a moment ago, his hair was practically matted to his head.

“You said this wouldn’t take long.” Xander flinched as another knot came loose.

God, he should have just gotten a buzzcut like some of the mercenaries. It always seemed to keep their hair out of things.

“It has only been a few minutes, my Prince, please be patient. Anyway, I have already finished.”

Xander stood up and dressed himself with haste in an attempt to ignore his malformed, sopping wet body. It was ineffective. He still saw the trackmarks that throbbed like spider bites and a cock that would not come itself. How disgusting.

“Then go back to my father. I want to be alone.” That wasn’t it. Not really. He just didn’t want someone to watch him in a moment of weakness.

He didn’t want Gunter to see him cry.

“I can’t leave until you’ve eaten lest you go on another Hunger Strike. The King’s told me that you’re rather prone to them, actually. That you starved yourself until you passed out once. I wonder though, what reason did you have for doing something like that for?” It was a call towards an opening inside of Xander’s mind, in the place where contradictions lay.

It asked him what he was doing starving himself, anyway. What he thought it was going to achieve, anyway. Since even if the Gods were kind enough to let him die, his father would just have moved onto Corrin, anyway.

“When will you come to see me again?” He asked quietly.

“I will try. But if you don’t eat, there’s a good chance that the King will send someone else next time.”

Sickness, or something that itched like it, replaced the rumbling in Xander’s stomach but he ate anyway. In spite of the fact that the taste of rotting flesh lingered in his meal. Because he did not really want to be alone. As he lacked something vitally unknown as a person.

Was it strength of will? Determination? Awareness of self, of guilt? All those things and more? No matter what it was, it would prove his father right. If it wasn’t for him, Xander would be dead somewhere. Or worse. He would most likely be in some Hoshidan whorehouse by now; unable to remember his real name or meaning for existence. And that would be fine for anything was better than being alone. But it is still so unfair. Agonizingly unjust.

It isn’t as if his father treated him any significantly better than that hypothetical brothel would. In fact, Xander has begun to feel that there is no affection in their relationship anymore. At least not to the degree that there is in his father’s relationship with Corrin. He and Camilla had been thrown away, hadn’t they? For Corrin’s sake. They must have been since their father looked at them so differently since that godforsaken brat showed his face.

“Please, come and see me again soon.” The anxiety at the realization forced itself into Xander’s lips like a black tentacle.

It was thick and sticky with shame, assaulting the emotions of all involved. Revolting.

“Of course. And I’ll speak to your father about releasing you early since it isn’t healthy for a young man to be stuck in such a small space. Although, I’d appreciate if in return, you went to see Lord Corrin more often. I fear he’s coping much poorer than you.”

Corrin. Corrin. Corrin.

A black Prince clad in white armour, smiling like he’s stupid.

Xander has been wrong about everything, hasn’t he? All along! Corrin had never been stolen from him as he was never Xander’s to begin with. The case is rather that Xander is so despicable to others that the light and delightful Corrin had been stealing the attention of others from him. That’s it? Isn’t it? That’s why he is always so miserable. Because of Corrin.

Because of Corrin’s beautiful white skin and teeth, because of his lanky limbs and cheerful demeanour, because of his scrawny muscles that make it so difficult for him to resist anyone’s love. Why would anyone want the gangly and antisocial Xander when they could have his cute, exotic younger brother?

But still, Xander can’t really hate him for that it. Corrin did not ask to be born so clean, after all. But now, more than ever, it is his responsibility to do what his father had done for him (kinder, gentler, more precise) and protect Corrin until death. How can he be expected to protect himself when he can not even deter the attention of other men?

***

Hands (with the dark coolness of ice on pavement) trailed down Xander’s abdomen. They brushed and scratched the surface of his muscles, settling down on the base of the bruise they had left just above his waist. Fingers pressed on the swollen tumour-like bruises. Xander hissed between his teeth in a way that sounds like a groan.

“You moan wonderfully.” His father’s whispering trailed in the air like white smoke; memorizing and drowning Xander in the smoothness of sight, voice and inflections. “Like an angel with its wings torn off and tattered.”

“A fascinating imagery, father. Thank you for comparing me to such a thing.” What else could you say to that?

“Alexander, answer me this, what is the loveliest thing that exists in this world?”

Back then, his knee-jerk response was “There is nothing in this world that is more beautiful than Corrin’s pale, smooth skin.” but today and all days following, the answer is instead “The red in Ryouma’s eyes.”

He could not answer with either. Instead, he searched the recesses of his mind and part of his soul for the correct answer. There wasn’t one, of course. It was an open ended question. Subjective. But Xander knew full well what his fate would be if he faltered or answered in a way that was displeasing. So his jaw shut up like a trap. So tight that he could free it although he desperately wished to.

“Do you have nothing to say to me, Alexander? Or are you trying to be rebellious once more? Must I completely isolate you? Take away the little contact that you have left? Will you learn your lesson then?”

No, no he wouldn’t learn his lesson. It wasn’t like he was doing this on purpose, after all. It was a natural reaction from a mind that has taken more than its fair shares of beatings. It doesn’t seem fair to blame him for that, does it? When his father is such much worse. He is a violent, temperamental beast who speaks ill even of his dead wife who loved him more than anything. And he doesn’t hold Xander anymore.

“The most beautiful thing in our world is a man whose body has been irreparably stained with sadism. His flesh battered and broken, arms torn and legs broken, eyes gouged out, face cut up like fish innards, it is more radiant than even the whitest of skins. The viscerality of such beauty will not leave the minds of anyone who stares at them; forever tainting their viewpoint as well.” Xander burnt his father with those words.

Burnt everything around him.

“Are you telling me that you believe that things can only grow more beautiful if they are sullied?” God, wasn’t he listening to the intonation at all? It was so obvious that his father was angry.

It’s like he didn’t even care.

“Yes, that’s exactly it.”

Xander’s nose fractured beneath his father’s fist. Cracking and bending off to the side. His eyes turned red with tears and blood dripped into his mouth like snot. It was flavourless like water.

“My God Alexander, are you listening to yourself right now?” Thick fingers dug into his bloody nose and twisted; serving to do nothing but get Xander yet even harder. “You practically asked to be broken! You might as well have told me that you want me to use and abuse you until you are good for nothing more than fucking! To break your arms and legs so not all the magic in the world could repair them! Leaving you with just enough sense and locomotion that you can understand how thoroughly destroyed you have been! Is that really what you want?”

“Forgive me.” Xander swallowed back vomit that ate into his throat. “Please, father, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to anger you.”

Those hands, so rough and cruel, pushed back a lock of hair that dangled in front of Xander’s face, tucking it behind his ear.

“Oh Xander, of course you didn’t mean it. You’re a good boy, under it all.”

He punched Xander again. 

***

Xander sets a chessboard down (it consists of tempered and painted metal pieces in black and white; images of monarchs long past this world.) down in front of Ryouma. Regrettably, he took Xander's advice and changed into his kimono. Thus, exposing only a slight amount of cleavage and most of right arm. However, clearly more than an accident, all the scars generated from their ‘sessions’. Perhaps he's trying to tempt Xander. If that was the case he might as well be naked.

“This is Leo’s favourite board so I would appreciate it dearly if you were to be careful with it. Specifically, the board itself. Not the pieces. Those are remarkably durable, crafted in Nohr with our strongest metals, although the paint does need to be redone every two years or so. Therefore, there is no need to be concerned if some of it comes off whilst we play. It’s due for a revision.” Xander says.

He keeps a serious face and tone but honestly, he feels as if he should be laughing right now. The conversation is amiable, spoken with a soft tone and a hard expression but ultimately completely and utterly mundane. What right do the two of them, having lived in the libertine pleasures of this room, have to speak of such things?

Seemingly oblivious to the irony of his conversation, Ryouma lifts the White King with a slightly puzzled expression. Perhaps he’s fascinated by her long sleeves and thick armour or the colour of her hair and shape of her eyes that look so distinctly like Ryouma’s that Xander can almost imagine loving her. You know, if there was any room in his heart for the love of women.

“Some of these pieces are Byakuyajin. I mean, Hoshidan. Why?”

“No need to correct yourself, Ryouma. I’m already very familiar with your terms for us and yourselves. Before I was sent out to war, there was an extensive training regime wherein myself and some other noblemen and women learnt much about your culture and language. But that’s off topic.” It is a dig at Hoshido’s perceived xenophobia.

But really, it is a way to show off to his beau. “Look how cultured I am!” he wants to say. Like a little boy.

As a better idea, he takes the King from the Ryouma’s hand (blushing with a sudden feeling of intimacy as their hands meet) and sets her back down besides her husband.

“Theses pieces were made long before our people had so much as considered making war with one another by a half Kohgan and half Nohrian artist for the current rulers of Hoshido and Nohr during that time period. It was back when the darkness touched your land and the sun touched mine, they say. The black pieces were created in the name of my great-great grandfather Siegbert and the white for your great-great grandmother whose name I fear I do not recall.”

“Suikazura. If it belonged partially to my family then why do you have it?”

“There is no need to sound so angry, dear. It was my truest intention to return the board to you as a show of goodwill. After our wedding. And it was not as if I was the one who stole the board away. In fact, the story goes -- although it can not be verified -- that when the first war started, my great grandmother and your great grandfather were kind enough to one another that they separated out all of the conjoined gifts. Our Empire received everything relating to Nohrian games, some epic poems that our ancestors tossed back and forth and some furniture. Your people allegedly received all relating to Hoshidan sports, sheet music written by and on behalf of our ancestors and some gardens. Were you not aware of this?”

“I’ve never concerned myself too much for the history of Nohr, I’m afraid.”

Xander already knew that and laughs for the sake of redundancy.

“You really were a sheltered young man, weren’t you? I’m sorry for that. The world is so much more beautiful if you are allowed to travel and do as you so please as my father had allowed me to.”

“If that is your earnest belief then why is it that you’re keeping Kamui locked in his room?” Ryouma does not ask this in a way showing any signs of hostility.

Actually, Xander can not read the emotions in his timbre at all.

“Touche.”

Like changing the subject, Xander stacks pieces up on the board -- careful movements designed to not scuff the wood beneath the metal.

“Are you familiar with the names of all the pieces and their movements?” He asks.

“Somewhat. I am aware that you refer to our Oushou as a regular King, our Kakugyou as a Bishop, our Keima as a Knight, our Hisha as a Rook and something like our Fuhyou as a Pawn but I do not know what the Queen piece does nor the rules for Promotion, if that’s even possible.” Ryouma gestures towards the White Queen (the figure of a man riding a flying horse as if it were a suitable replacement for a Wyvern).

“The Queen can move any number of spaces in any direction that she so pleases but can not move as a Knight. Also, Pawns can capture diagonally although they can not move that direction for any other purpose. No other pieces exist so when a Pawn promotes, it may only take the form of a Knight, a Bishop, a Rook or a Queen. Normally, we change them to a Queen as those are the most powerful pieces on the board but Knights are also common for particular moves. There’s no real point in changing a piece to a Rook or a Bishop if you are a beginner to the game. I must say, I am not very experienced either so I won’t be using any advanced tactics that you would need to know about.”

“I see. And what is done about captured pieces?”

“They’re taken out of the game, nothing more. Oh yes, and the only piece capable of jumping over others is the Knight so please don’t do anything like that.”

“I see. So would it be appropriate to take a Knight out before a Pawn?”

“Of course. That’s the move I usually start with, actually. I fear that I’m quite predictable once you get to know me. Ah, I forgot something. White always moves first. And as you are my Prince of the Midnight Sun, I find it most appropriate that you play White although you surely have an advantage over me.”

“Well, I’ll warn you of something first,” Ryouma grins. “I’ve won over two thousand Shogi games in my lifetime. Although I am unfamiliar, your defeat is inevitable.”

“We’ll see about that, my love. When I said I wasn’t experienced, I meant to the degree of Leo and Elise. I also have two thousand wins under my belt by men I respect far more than you.” Xander matches that smile, relaxing his face to the point of smoothness.

Ryouma moves a White Pawn, the figure of a young Basara (all of the White pawns take the forms of particular Masters of Arms, Basara and Master Ninja and Xander almost wishes he knew their names), to the square of e4.

“You’re getting the hang of it already.” Xander matched with a Black Pawn (a Hero type with an overtly masculine face for what looks like a female figure) to e6, matching Ryouma’s move nearly exactly. “It was rather bold of you to leave your King unprotected. Although, this early in the game, it likely doesn’t matter much.”

“Hoshido is a country of glory, Xander. It is only natural that, even in games, I continue to pursue that ideal.” Ryouma moves his White Knight 1, a male Kinshi Knight with a scar covered the entire half of his face so the creator chose to depict it just with melting the paint and metal to rugged bumps, to c3.

“So I’ve noticed.” The Black Knight 1, a Bow Knight with light armour and an androgynous figure so Xander would not be surprised if in life, they were neither man nor woman, jumps to c6.

“Are you going to keep copying my moves?” The White Knight 2, a Pegasus Knight with her face entirely hooded over, carries over to f3.

“Most likely not.” The Second Black Bishop with a Sorcerer’s outfit and a more masculine body than expected of a man in such clothing moves to b4, settling just up against Ryouma’s White Kinshi Knight. “See, I did something all my own.”

“So you did.” The Second White Bishop, a Priestess with a dress painted all in silver, moved to b5. “But I can make aggressive moves as well.”

“Indeed, I fear that’s all you can do.” Xander moves a Berserker Pawn two spaces to d5.

“Better to be aggressive than needlessly cautious, Xander.” Ryouma began to move his King, the spitting image of his long dead great-great-grandmother (a female Samurai with armour covering her chin and forward, moving upwards into two rigid spikes and all red) closer towards his Second White Rook.

“Even saying so, you decide to protect your King despite the fact that she could have easily withstood any move I had to make this early on in the game. I think you might be more restrained than you’d like to admit.”

“And you, more beast-”

Ryouma jumps with the sound of an abrupt slam. Xander turns to face the door, cringing as some young soldier hammers it against the hinges.

“My Prince, the King has returned!” The young Beatrice calls from the other side of the door. She’s afraid.

What for? His Father keeps it in the family (that was a joke. He most certainly does not).

“Already? But it’s not gone dark yet.” Xander knocks a piece over and onto the board as he makes his way over towards the door.

Painfully symbolic, the piece that tips is the other Black Knight. A Paladin. Of course. He laughs. One sharp and cold one that briefly bounces about the room before vanishing. He isn’t sure if it happened at all, really.

“He’s asking for you! And the former High Prince! The men and I shall try to slow him down but please, make haste!”

Xander scratches his thighs through his tights. They itch with his father’s looming presence. Soon, that itch turns to a burning sensation like lapping up acid. It swallows up Xander’s muscles, his skin, his tongue, with the feeling of jagged glass and peeling skin and the taste of blood and meat seeping back into his throat. It is the same tainting sensation that permeates his body upon waking and the last thing that he feels before he sleeps. And while he dreams, it crawls around in his bladder and liver and lungs and testes and brain and degrades them more often than not.

But it isn’t really undeserved, is it? He asked for it with his weak heart and sensitive skin and bones. Ryouma, on the other hand, such a thing should never happen to him. He does not beg for it. He is not that kind of man.

He is savage and wild with skin as thick as a dragon’s hide yet sheltered in the kind of way that keeps his soul from ever becoming debased as Xander’s has been (though his mind is polluted with strange ideals). So what would become of him when Xander’s father was done? Would Ryouma begin to wake up with the ghost-like sensation of hands wrapped around his throat? Would his skin crawl? Would his mouth taste like snot and his skin of rotting meat? Would he learn to live with an amazing sensibility?

It happened to Camilla before and before her, a number of women of whom Xander did not even remember their names. He doesn’t think he can bear to see it again. Such things should not befall those with a fiery disposition. Or at least, if it must happen, Xander should be the one to do it. Since his father doesn’t understand love, how on Earth does he expect to redeem Ryouma? Xander knew love once. Laslow engraved it on his mind with touches like silk and a smile that persisted above all else.

He sees that smile whenever he closes his eyes. God, it was so beautiful.

***  
That was a misinterpretation. Xander was loved once before Laslow (but he won’t be again) in a way much like a father and son. Naturally, he ruined it.

Weeks after his first encounter with Gunter, he began to consider telling him the truth about his scars. For, between his furious bouts of daydreaming and actual dreaming, he started to covet the old man’s attentions. He didn’t have much else to look forwards to. So, isn’t it understandable that he would have done anything to keep him around?

“I’ve brought you a present.” The somber tones of Gunter’s voice awoke him from yet another lovely dream (of a world where the sun shines at midnight).

“That’s not necessary.” Xander replied (since he had no idea what to say to such kindness).

“A present isn’t a present if it’s necessary. It’s rather, a display of affection or good faith or something like that. Who told you otherwise?”

“No one had to tell me. It was a natural, logical thought process leading to an easily understood conclusion. As I’m only given things if they are for a specific purpose or in return for doing something, doesn’t it make sense that I assumed that’s how everyone lives? I received Granni and my lance by behaving diligently. Though, I’ve stopped using the latter now that Siegfried has accepted me as his new master.” The question was a clear verbal entrapment (clumsy, even) but Xander answered it anyway.

It was as if to say “Help me”.

“That was more information than I needed, my Prince. It only served to muddle our conversation.” Gunter laughed somewhat pitying. That wasn’t the response Xander had wanted. “Regardless, what kinds of things are you doing in return for these gifts? I’m curious.”

All this time and they hadn’t even moved past the stage of disgust. What the fuck did Xander think was going to happen? That he would be taken in by someone? That someone would notice the indescribable agony he was in? That someone could actually save him?

Xander dug his nails into his wrist and pulled at veins until his shirt turned pink with blood. The colour was the same shade as shame.

Dear God, please send someone to save him. Dear God, he wanted to be saved. Dear God, it hurt just breathing.

“I receive them for doing what my father asks of me although it may be hazardous to my health.” He twisted his forefinger into the wound, spilling blood because he shouldn’t have said that last part.

“I receive them for doing what my Father asks of me. Although it causes me great pain to do so.” Was that really asking so much?

For someone to help him? He was seventeen, what did you want him to do? He had never lived on his own nor had he ever done anything for his own sake. What can you do if you don’t even know how to be selfish?

“I’m sorry, could you clarify? I’m afraid I may be misunderstanding you. Are you telling me that the King gives you rewards for enduring physical suffering?”

Xander wanted to grab Gunter by the collar and scream and beg for help. To be understood. To be loved. If only for a moment. He wanted to run from this place where the sun never shone and keep running until he reached the ocean. Goddamnit, he wanted to see the ocean again. But more than any of that, he wanted to live as he used to with his mother and father, far away from any of this. He wanted his childhood back. Why did things turn out like that?

“My father rewards me as he would any other soldier; for obeying orders even if they’re painful. Is there something wrong with that?”

“Is that how you got those scars? From following orders?” Gunter came as close to him as either of them could endure.

Close enough that Xander could smell his skin from where he stood. It was like stale sweat and cigarette smoke. Things dead and buried. It soothed Xander’s wayward thoughts enough for him to begin to speak clearly. That was likely his biggest mistake here.

“I don’t want to answer you.” He said with more honesty than he had in a long time.

Gunter wrapped his large fingers around Xander’s own as an offering of consolation or comfort. It was both and neither and he must have seen the blood. But he said nothing of it. Why not?

“And why not?” That was his line.

“Because I would hate for you to be forbidden from seeing me again.” Stop pitying me but please don’t leave me alone.

Please be nice to me. Please love me. Please keep touching me. Please don’t go anywhere, don’t throw me away, don’t abandon me! The string of abnormal thoughts brought tears to Xander’s eyes and clutched onto Gunter’s hand as if it were his last tether to the mortal world.

“It won’t happen. Your father and I have a grand history together and so, I am sure that no matter how angry he is with you, he will still allow visits.”

Wasn’t he listening to Xander alone?

Xander didn't want to be here anymore! He didn’t want to be alone! He didn’t want to be treated like a toy or a weapon or as a replacement for his mother or whoever else his father had lost or decided he wanted after all. He wanted to be treated nicely for once, for fuck’s sake and Gunter wasn’t making any attempt to pay attention to that. He was so wrapped up in pity and empathy that he ignored Xander’s wants and desires entirely. But isn’t that just typical? Only Laslow has ever treated Xander like a person. Even Ryouma considers him to be some kind of wild, abused animal.

His tonsils were smeared with the cloying taste of sentimentality. Or maybe it was shame. No, it must have been anger. Internalized. Implosive. Self-destructive.

“Please, Xander, let me try and understand you.”

Xander stuck his wrist in his mouth and bit down, rubbing blood on his face like shit. He pulled Gunter close with his other hand.

“I can show you.” He tugged his shirt off to reveal a paradise of half healed bruises and bloody lesions that spotted his abdomen and chest. Prayers offered up to dark Gods that only Xander could name. “I can let you do everything that my father has.”

He brushed blood (tasting like oranges and chocolate) against Gunter. The old man recoiled as if struck.

“Don’t.” He muttered in an almost frightened tone of voice.

That was honestly pretty funny.

There has never been more than one person that was or is willing to hold Xander for more than a moment. He was born decayed. Black and putefried like a pig. Or was it the aura of rottenness that the made the subconscious good sense of men reject him? The way his body developed? With a chest grotesquely swollen with metal bits and scars that not even the lowliest of junkies could find appealing? Or maybe he was just terribly unlucky in love.

Really though, what was he expecting? The two did not know each other particularly well with one sessions of ten, fifteen, minutes each and light conversation being used to express their feelings. Gunter must have had no idea that Xander was such a mess. It was therefore only reasonable that fostering off his bizarre affections onto the poor man would have such an effect.

“You need to leave.” Xander choked out from behind a veil of raspiness that betrayed his true feelings.

He had hoped that Gunter would protest, take a few steps and look back, embrace him but none of that happened. Why would it? Xander is disgusting in body and soul. Gunter likely feared touching him in case it was contagious. Ah, it must have been contagious, right? Truly? After all, Xander could not have been born this way and his father’s personality slowly shifted towards this current state rather than having always been his nature. Something must have happened; a curse, an infectious insanity, a disease of the soul, that made them like this.

No wonder no one could stand to touch him.

Xander laughed in a way that was hauntingly similar to his father’s. A hysterical bellowing that sounded a bit like crying and a lot like insanity. He keeled over from the pain.

***

That night, his father’s eyes were like embers burning hatred up like coal. Xander thought he must have been possessed (why could that have not been the true ailment) but the false pleasure residing in that shit-eating grin said otherwise. Besides, Xander doubts even a demon could be so cold-hearted.

“What did you tell Gunter last night?” It wasn’t a real question. A test, more like.

Xander never hated his father as much as he did on that day. Well, no, that was almost true. Xander stood alone at his mother’s funeral, clutching onto her coat and crying in rain so cold that no one else dared to come out until it had ceased and his father had been off playing with the Baronness. When Xander slept on the filled out grave, telling everyone and anyone that she would rise one day, his father still didn’t come. Xander dreamt about killing him for the first time then. He thought he might break his face open and see what was inside. His mother would have been so disappointed.

“Nothing of any importance.” Xander retaliated against that smile, that room, the way that Gunter had just left him there.

His head left numb and heavy. Obviously, the isolation had begun to drive him insane. Which was so unfair considering Corrin had suffered three times as much in that regard and still looked on with the innocence of a babe. But what could be done about that but leaving it to simmer?

Really though, if he had to blame his future actions or sudden spike in emotions to one thing, he would place it at just rejection. He said those things to make Gunter stay, not to drive him off. Certainly not to try and be saved. He never thought the latter would happen so it wasn’t as if he was asking for a lot. But still, he ended up alone and miserable.

Xander bets that if Corrin had told Gunter that, he would have escaped by the time the sun rose in the East.

“I already know what you said, Alexander, asking only to see if you would confess.” His father’s voice was black sugar; foul and burnt with sweetness.

Was he really going to try and seduce Xander after what had just happened? After doing the one thing that Xander can not stand? And it must have been his father’s fault, right? Gunter must have been sent for the sole purpose of rejecting Xander and driving him back into Garon’s arms.

“I had hoped you’d be angry with me. Angrier than you’ve ever been before.” That wasn’t going to fucking work either.

Although Xander did not want to be thrown away, he did not want to be here either.

His father was going to toss him out like garbage, wasn’t he? The sense of dread in the jelly of Xander’s eyes told him so. That was why he brought Corrin. The beautiful, malleable, obedient Corrin that could handle a sword as if her were born with one in his hand. Corrin who could dance circles around the men of Cykrensia, could whisper things sos weet that devils would cry if they heard him. Corrin with eyes that his father praised above all else! Those eyes that don’t understand why people hate things!

If Xander told Corrin what had been done to him, he wouldn’t even believe him! At least Gunter, useless as he may have been, listened!

“Has the cold gone to your head, dear boy, or the isolation to your heart? Since those are the only reasons that I can think of that you would ask for me to do such things to you.”

It was too late to stop the path he was going down. He saw it right then that one day, he would become his father. What could be done about it?

Xander thought about snatching up Siegfried and all the gold he could carry and running off into the woods with Tyger. They could disappear among the trees, found years later by a captured soldier in some foreign country. He even played with the stupid idea of joining a distant army so he could come back with a force all his own; strong enough to come and save everything that he had been forced to leave behind.

“I fear that it’s something much darker, Father. My soul’s become so corrupt with lust that I fear I’m going mad. Without your presence, it just keeps building.”

What did he think he was saying? What was he thinking? It was not as if he could do anything on his own.

“Unfortunately, intercourse is not on the menu for tonight. I have a very important meeting in just a few moments and I can not bear any distractions. Even ones as wonderful as you.” His father’s voice had the same way about it that it possessed while speaking at his mother’s grave (late, of course).

Xander could never understand what caused that tone. Was it an emotion he was incapable of feeling himself?

“But if you are patient, I will come see you tomorrow morning and we can make love until the sun sinks into the sky.”

“Thank you, Father.” He wrapped his arms around his father’s neck and smiled gently.

Xander ought to have taken a needle and slammed it into his father’s eye socket; not stopping until the blood and brains fell out of his skull like a soup. But he couldn’t although it would have been for the best if he had back then (when he was still somewhat fresh and innocent and desirable). Because Xander, he knows he can not expect even Ryouma to understand this sentiment, still loved his father.

***

“You’re frightened.” Ryouma mutters.

It was as if he saw that memory flashing in Xander’s head and felt he should take advantage of it.

“No, I’m not.” Xander says in spite of the fact that they both know it isn’t true.

“I see, in that case, your expression is merely born out of what? Concern for me?”

“Correct.” He steals a pair of panties from the old chest, white and laced with gold, and holds them tentatively in front of Ryouma. “Do you think my father would approve of you wearing this clothing? I am aware that he has a fetish for crossdressing but he may see any or all of the particular articles I have here as a kind of blasphemy.”

“I don’t doubt that you’re worried about me Xander but there’s more to it than that. Your eyes are full of a sorrow that runs far deeper than the kind of concern that can be felt for your enemy.” Ryouma steps closer, striking him with intimacy.

“I do not doubt your worry for me, Xander, but there is more to it than that. Your eyes are full of a sorrow that runs far deeper than the kind of things that can be felt for your enemy.” Ryouma takes a step closer.

Xander flusters with the feeling of another’s warmth near him. He takes a step away and seals the fabric back inside the chest.

“We aren’t enemies, you said that yourself.” It’s best to leave those memories where they belong. Far away from Xander’s new life with Ryouma. “I think you already know why I do not want to see my Father and that it has little to do with you.”

Was that harsh? It seemed harsh.

“Are you saying that you don’t want to tell me why or that you think that I should already know?” Ryouma already knows all of Xander’s hidden weaknesses and flaws.

Where to strike into Xander’s psyche to get what he wants. He knew it all from the very beginning. Before Xander had so much as started to formulate this plan. Xander isn’t sure what he wants from him or what exactly he thinks can be obtained from the broken husk of Nohr itself but he won’t stop him. For a reason that Xander could not explain to even himself. That has become a running theme, yes? Xander’s reluctance (or inability) to understand what he wants, what he needs, why he feels the way he does.

One day, he will have to speak to Ryouma about his half-successful manipulations but today is not that day. Today, Xander is content just to be touched by someone that can stand him. Even if it’s a lie.

“Both.” Xander takes the chest and puts it on top of the wardrobe, just out of Ryouma’s reach. “You look lovely the way you are but your skin reeks. You have to take another bath. We both do. We’re so filthy.”

THe comment was as much of a fact as it is a was a metaphor. The two of them are both coated in a thick sheen of sweat and dried skin and the scent of vomit and piss still lingered in the air with a bad taste. Soon enough, Ryouma would no longer be himself. Xander doesn’t know if that frightens or excites him. Or which Xander feels which emotion.

“You’re changing the subject again. You know full well that we have never talked about what happened to you. Only the piercings. Surely, you’re not telling me that your father had--”

“Stop.” Xander holds back a scream with the strength of a stone dam. “We will have no more talk of this. You and I will take a bath together whether you like it or not. Or would you prefer it if I got Jakob in here and had him wash you in my place?”

If he left Xander for a butler, Xander was going to finally snap. There would be nothing left to do but take Siegfried and carve out Ryouma’s heart before following with his own. What else could he do? Ryouma is his last attachment to his world. Even if he is blatantly using Xander.

“There’s no need to bring him here. I want the affair to be an intimate one; to calm your nerves.” And with those few, mere words, Xander is saved.

He stops scratching at his skin.

“Yes, thank you. We’ll have to be quick with it though which is such a shame. There’s little that I’d love more than spending the rest of the day watching you.” That last part was exceptionally creepy and he can’t help but grimace for it.

He should have socialized more as a boy. But most of the other children despised him even when he was close to what could be called normal. He just had that aura about him; a face of frustration.

“I understand. But still, I want to speak with you about your father. Not today but some day shortly. Please, allow me that pleasure.”

Well, actually, perhaps it was a good idea. If Ryouma came to understand his way of thinking, his anger, then it would make their coupling all the sweeter. Maybe it wouldn’t have to be done under the threatening of others lives anymore. Unlikely but Xander wants to hold onto that concept regardless.

Perhaps it was a good idea, though. If Ryouma could come to understand Xander’s way of thinking, his anger, then there coupling would be all the richer for it. It would not longer require the threatening of others or violence or pain without the enjoyment of it. A fragile, unlikely hope but Xander wants to try and hold onto the concept regardless.

Because, although he doubts that anyone could really understand the sentiment, he still wants to be saved.

“As if I could deny such an earnest request.” Ryouma already knows that.

Xander would laugh but he doesn’t feel like it.

***

He initially tried to pick the lock with a piece of metal barely a centimeter long. It easily forced itself into the handle only to snap in half. So Xander tried again with a knife from an earlier meal. It slide in easily enough at first but eventually jammed and could not be freed so his movements resulted only in metal jutting out from the lock like a bone from a wound. The result was nothing less than a mess that rendered the handle unable to turn fully left. So the sole thing left to do was smash it.

Xander remembers regretting the situation immensely. For it was not as if the door has asked to be created much less to exist as an obstacle. Nor did the deadbolt want to be made on either side or so strong that it refused all attempts at picking. And it certainly was not the fault of this beautiful room, which had only wanted to keep someone safe, for holding Xander inside of it. He hated to destroy the sanctity of it.

But as the population of doves had to be culled, Xander decided that he did not want to be there anymore. It became a necessary evil. So he took the heaviest piece of furniture that would fit between the space of the doorframe and its handle (which happened to be the marble lid of the toilet) and hammered down. It did not come off. It was made of metal so why would it? But the shape was warped so drastically that the pick finished its business and the door popped open.

Xander wept for the beauty of the outside. Moonlight streamed in through a window across the hallway in a baptism of all that it touched. Xander’s hands, the steel door and the metal threshold that he could not cross were embraced in a transfixing stark whiteness, as black as the inside as Xander’s mind. It set his spirit whirring with fear.

What was he going to do now? How was he going to keep on living?

How was he even going to get outside? There was a guard stationed in every hall and room in the castle and a patrol of fifty men that surrounded the building at any given moment. Did he think he was just going to bluff his way through that? When he could not so much as smooth-talk Gunter into staying with him?

Xander’s muscles crawled. Centipedes ate beneath his skin, stealing away all of his valour and the strength to carry him away. He scratched until his skin was raw although it did nothing. Nothing did anything of any use!

Tyger was going to leave him. The revelation was carried on the wind rustling outside the window. The man may have been as pious as a devil, yes, but he was addicted to war and there was no way that he’d give up such a magnificent one for Xander’s sake. Besides, what would become of Camilla and Leo is Xander left? They would suffer twice as much in his absence. No, he would be replaced by one of them. His father would likely even smile when he heard of Xander’s departure. Then he could trade the boy without regret.

Insecurity howled like a demon. It cut and tore at Xander’s soul until he vomited. Spilling lament over lamentation over the door frame.

Did he really think he could bear being alone? After all of these years spent existing only to please others? What was he going to do without his father to order him around? Without Tyger and Marguerite? Without Camilla? What could he do without Siegfried (the blade rejects him even to this day despite the fact that it feels like holding his mother’s hand)?

The spaces around Xander reeked of decay. It was far too late for anything else. It was all far, far too late.

He cried onto his bloodied hands and went back to bed.

The sheets felt painfully warm against Xander’s still bloody skin. As if they were made from mistakes. Or glass. He wrapped himself up in them regardless, trying very hard not to think.

His father was going to realize what had happened, of course (the thoughts slipped out regardless). The door was still broken and the floor was still slick with blood and puke. Obviously, he could not fix it and his legs could not gather enough strength to carry him away from this place. Thus, the only thing he could do was bear the punishment on both shoulders.

There was no sorrow that could be brought down on him that he had not experienced before. He had been stabbed, beaten, torn apart, violated, impaled, burnt, electrocuted, left to swallow in the darkness, touched so gently that it hurt, all before coming here. You see, the thing about pain is that it can only go on so long before you start to endure it. Before it becomes pleasurable. It really can not be that bad of a punishment then, right? Since Xander has already endured everything that this world has to offer.

Except… What if his father threw him away with nothing more than the clothes on his back? What would Xander do if he had to support himself? Who would he turn to since there is no one on this Earth who loves him.

If that was the case, his father might as well take Bolverk and drive it into Xander’s skull.

There was the sudden feeling of heat that crawled across Xander’s optic nerve and into his tear ducts. Hot, ugly tears twisted his face into that of an infant and drove his temples to throb. As a matter of fact, he was crying. Sobbing. Nigh uncontrollably.

There was still time. He could beg, offer his body up, do something awful. His father might then show him some meagre amount of mercy. No, of course he wouldn’t! Xander had committed a sin far worse than any before. The ultimate betrayal of the ideals they had shared that could have only been topped by actually leaving. And his father never did take well to rejection.

Xander’s head hurt. The throbbing tasted like cotton wool. It was Xander’s comforter.

That was it then, wasn’t it? It was over. Like a fox caught in a trap, with but a whimper.

Perhaps, at least, his end could be a warm one.

***

Xander dreamt that he followed his shaking will; that he ran all the way to the Forbidden Forest and did not look back (though he was lonelier and more frightened than he had been when he was born). There, he chased the uneasing light of the moon to a place where the sky was always blue and the sun shone at midnight. A Paradise of white sand and black seas all aflame.

“I waited for you.” The distant storm crackled. “For a very, very long time.”

“Forgive me. My legs were not strong enough to carry me until now. I was afraid of what was going to happen to me. Of being alone.” Xander replied.

“I’m not angry.” Words that caressed with rough, calloused hands like beaten iron. “That you’re here now is all that matters to me.”

He laid down on the beach, side by side with the incoming hurricane. For that brief moment, Xander thought and feared of nothing, listening only to the sounds of his love’s heart beating the ocean’s distant, gray waves. The world was beautiful again.

Xander wept for the amazing sensibility of it all.

***

He woke up choking on blood.

“You know Alexander, I just don’t get you.”

It tasted like shit.

“You tell me these beautiful fantasies of yours. How you want me, need me, that you are painfully lonely. That you want to be fractured like a glass doll, to have your body and soul defiled. Yet, the second that I start to try and understand your way of thinking, you pull these kinds of stunts.” Xander’s wrist throbbed in the confines of his father’s grip. “Be honest, do you hate me Alexander?”

“No, I could never.” Yes. Maybe. He didn’t know.

Nor could he remember if his nose was broken but it must have been. All Xander could smell was iron.

“Then why are you treating me like this?” His Father said with eyes so defeated (he wore an expression far worse than the one he had on the day Xander’s mother had died). “You act as if I mean nothing to you. Worse than that, you lie to me, run from me, abuse me. And I have never done anything to deserve such cruelty. Or have I? Am I missing something, Alexander? If I did something to make you fear or despise me, please tell me.”

What can you say to that? What answer could anyone possibly give that would have shut down that conversation before its escalation? As Xander did not know, he could not give an answer. Nor did he want to. But the pain of ignoring the the question would have likely been much worse than the pain of an incorrect one. Maybe. It was not as if his father was a particularly predictable man.

Well, Xander had no right to be angry about such things anyway. For it was his own fault that any of this had happened. No one made him run off like that.

“I don’t want to be here anymore.” The words slopped out like his tears did. Shamefully.

Xander’s wrist snapped. There was no measure of redemption or hesitation or subtlety in the act. It just broke. Twisted, ugly and limp; red like ground beef.

“So you just wanted attention, then.” The walls screamed and groaned, buckling beneath the immense pressure of his father’s malice to reveal a room barely ten feet wide. “You disappoint me.”

It was like rot. Not the miasma itself (although it was thickly present) but the very essence of the room. Retroactively familiar and barren, it was made up of materials harsher than cobblestone and colder than iron with those fearsome walls decorated with tools designed to break and seduce any man. Besides those, it held little more than a set of chairs - two ordinary and one with straps -, a table that would function effectively as a restraint and a squat toilet inside. All with a layer of grime over them that would have dated them back several hundred years were it not for the seals belonging to craftsmen still living. Certainly, it was the most unpleasant room in the dungeon for its very arua was festing somewhere dark and meaty.

“I’m sorry!” Xander screamed in pain (snot dripped down his face in a river of watery mucus).

“Trying to run again?” His worthless, light body bounced against the ground like a ragdoll. “You know what? I think that I must have spoilt you. Yes, that’s it. That is the problem. My father beat me if I so much as looked at a guest in a way he deemed unbecoming and I would had never even considered running away. Then again, you may just have a weak moral fibre. You take after your mother’s family in that regard. Your grandmother was a birdlike woman like yourself. Skittish and nervous til the day she died. But fear not, I’ve just the thing to cure you.”

Xander clutched onto his father with his remaining hand (although it was the old man’s fault he was in this position in the first place) as he was strapped in. The muscles in his neck strained to keep his head upright.

“What will you do with me?” He grimaced as his head fell off to the side.

“Nothing that you do not want.” There was the sudden feeling of dread and the close, yet somehow far away, sound of metal scraping against stone that set Xander’s nerves on edge. “In fact, we can stop anytime you want.”

It was a mallet. Made of a slightly rusted iron ore for men much smaller than his father. It looked like a child’s toy in his hand and Xander had to stifle a laugh. He balled his left hand into a fist. The right refused to move at all.

“If you’re very good, we don’t even have to start.” His father’s voice was barely above a whisper.

“Please, tell me how to be good.” Xander smiled for he could not understand him at all.

He could not understand anything. His father was right about that, too.

Xander’s index finger bent inwards at a ninety degree angle. Strangely, he didn’t feel anything from it until he glanced down. Then, it was only a light cramping where it had been wrenched out from the socket that distracted from the dull ache that was his nose and temples.

“You lost the first finger for asking.” His father took Xander’s right middle between two of his own and pulled. “The second for having to.”

It popped. Not with the sound that you would expect coming from meat but one that bore a stronger similarity to popping a bubble with your mouth. It was so… fake that Xander could not help but stare at it while his body screamed and thrashed where it sat. For a brief moment, Xander felt as if he wasn’t really there. That his soul had become completely divorced from his body.

“Relax. I have no intentions of crippling you or anything similar so there is no need for hysterics.” The hammer came down again.

It broke the nail off Xander’s pinky and his ring finger entirely with the middle chipped beyond repair. His hand looked like a smashed tomato. That too, was hilarious. Although, Xander was crying once more. Trying to move fingers that after a few more blows, were able to be molded like putty or mud.

He could not feel the pain in his hands so he must have been crying for some other reason. There was only the dull throbbing of his heartbeat at the core of his stomach.

“The shock has kicked in, has it? I must have gone to fast.” Every sound around Xander sounded muffled. As if coming from under a heavy blanket.

They had a particularly feeling inside of Xander’s mouth. Like eating fabric. It was almost comforting. But not to last.

A sensation like eating raw mint or the smell of aloe vera flooded his veins with ice. It took Xander’s skin and knit it together; welding bones back into flesh and reigniting his nerves. In true agony, he howled. Just as a dog would.

“As good as new. Besides the scars but we both know they look gorgeous on you.” His father snapped off the restraints. “We should be more intimate with this, don’t you think so? Like lovers. After all, I did promise you lovemaking.”

Lacking the strength to walk, Xander fell forwards into his father’s arms.

“I’ve brought the Hammer, Xander. A lot of it. So we don’t have to stop.” Yes, yes they did.

“Please, no.” Xander stuttered in spite of needing it so badly that he hurt.

But really though, he just wanted to sleep. His bones felt tired. Right down to the marrow.

“I have already made up my mind. I will fulfill my promise, Xander. You should be happy.”

The needle dug into his arm, infecting his body with the nature of dogrose. It carved into him with pleasure and pain until his brain started to leak out from his ears and his tracks marks bled white noise. Oh God, it was so loud in there. The screams of burning were unbearable and only his father’s voice could help.

“Forgive me.” He felt like he was dying when he spoke.

The words were barbs and his mouth bled out.

“Don’t act as if I’m punishing you!” Xander fell onto his back as his father forced his thighs open. “And stop taking your piercings out!”

Fabric snapped with a strong tug; exposing Xander’s entirely flaccid cock.

“Do I not arouse you anymore, Xander? Have I gotten too old for you? Have I let myself go? Is that why you are acting out?” Hands spread him as wide as he could go, groping around the shaft until it started thickening.

“It’s not that!” Xander whimpered.

“So there’s something then?” His father ran a fingernail down the scars adorning Xander’s member.

That didn’t hurt quite as badly so Xander accepted it. He laid limp and inert like a puppet and closed his eyes. Maybe things would be alright.

“My, they’ve almost healed shut. Has it truly been that long since we’ve been intimate?” His father had calmed down. Speaking softly and clearly like Xander was a child.

But he was a child, wasn’t he? At the end of it all.

“Months.” Not since Elise was born.

It had ended as soon as his father had gotten word she was a live birth. Actually, it was during a session that it was announced. His father had run out from the room at the news, leaving Xander tied to the throne for twenty six hours. But how could he blame Elise for that? She had not asked to be born anymore than he had and never looked down on him at least. Even if it was because she lacked the sense to do so.

So if anyone was to blame, surely it was Corrin. He begged for Xander’s father’s affection. Cried for it. And he wasn’t even a blood relative so what claim did he have?

“I’ve neglected you, haven’t I? Yes, that’s it. You’re tired of playing by yourself, you poor thing.” An erection pressed against Xander’s inner thighs, leaking precum.

He shuddered as it smeared across his skin.

Xander had waited months on months for this so why was he surrendering just when it was about to begin? When he had been so lonely? Empty? But really, he had been trying to escape without a thought behind it, hadn’t he? The same as a cornered rat.

For all of his waxing philosophical about dolls and dogs and meat, he does not know who he really is, what he wants, what any of this means. He did as he was told because he did not want to be punished. He disobeyed because he did not want to be ignored. He decomposed because he did not want to be loved. What did that make him then? What was he? Who was he?

Xander braced against his father and let his arms hang limply to the sides as he was spread open.

“Goddamn you!” Hands tightened around his arm and twisted.

The skin around his elbow thinned out until it turned white and brittle like paper. With a crunch, the bone split it in two. Xander’s remaining muscles ached around the compound fracture like an infected bite dripping blood instead of pus. Everything felt like it was going to burst. Swollen and full of emotion.

“Answer the fucking question! Why are you being this way?”

“Forgive me!” Xander screamed with dry orgasm.

“Be that way. Reject me. As by the time I am finished with you, I shall be the only thing left on your mind.” A finger was pressed up against Xander’s ass.

Then a piece of metal. Cold and sharp. So this was how it was going to be, then.

“You are quite cold when you want to be. Uptight and prudish. Like your mother.” Xander braced himself against the ground with his remaining hand.

It didn’t do him any good. But nothing ever does.

He was still violated with a sudden cold sensation. Blood pooled around the entrance as the feeling of bitterness was quietly replaced with ecstasy and pressure. A sensation so intense that Xander couldn’t breathe. It hurt too much to.

“Your expression is absurd.” His father swiveled the blade. “Please, make an effort to respond to me.”

Xander shrieked and pawed at the bloat of his stomach.

“Stop!” That wasn’t what either of them wanted to hear.

“I can’t say that I am not disappointed but you did do as I had asked. You deserve something nice for that.” Xander jerked, the blade wiping blood off onto the ground like shit as it was removed. “Please, don’t look at me like that while we do it.”

“I’m sorry.” He couldn’t move his arm. Not one bit.  
So he grabbed his father with the other one and pulled him close.

What was the point of healing it to only damage it worse next time around? Well, that was it, wasn’t it? To hurt him even more, to make up for the awkward beginning. The uncomfortable beginning. The one that wasn’t romantic, wasn’t brutal, wasn’t anything. It hadn’t been anything for a very long time and it would not be anything again.

Xander knew that, his father knew it. It was an unspoken agreement that passed between their lips with a kiss. Their love would never been the same as it was back then.

“It hurts!” The night should not have ended.

Xander wishes it did not have to end. But he also wished that it had been a dream.

“There’s nothing in there so how are your hurting, you stupid child? But, if you are truly in so much pain…” His father bent the needle, taking some of Xander’s skin with it, so deep that the very bone was bruised.

With it, Xander stopped thinking. He moved his right arm, it broke with every tremble, and held it against his father’s shoulder. A leak of blood dripped from the inside of Xander and made a small river around them. This really was the last place that could soothe him.

As a result of the injury, the first thrust was slippery and unpleasant. The two struggled to get into position. But the pace soon picked up with a feeling of defilement that pushed all the way to Xander’s stomach. He had never felt as fully, physically and emotionally, as he did right then. As he felt while bulging like a maggot; bloated with blood and cock.

“It hurts!” Xander laughed with an almost hysterical quality to it. He, too, was being changed by this event. “Forgive me!”

Something else was lost. Another unplaceable quality that he can never regain.

As he ground onto his father’s cock like an animal, his arm seemed to force itself straight and by its own will, pressed against his father’s chest violently. You would think if you walked in that Xander was trying to get him off but that couldn’t be right. Since he asked for it. But really, it was painful and he wasn’t ready for it yet. It is still one of his fondest memories.

He tremours to this day with the feeling of hands squeezing his throat.

“This is your penance, Xander! Your punishment for trying to replace me! For abandoning me!” His father choked him with both hands. “Accept my feelings and I will forgive you! Accept me and I will not stop!”

“Please; I accept you!” Xander grasped air from between his teeth, struggling to breathe.

Even so, he wrapped his legs around his father’s waist as the thrusting continued.

“As I knew you would.”

The world spun; hot and hazy. A sudden feeling of euphoria and nostalgia was eaten away by the distant cry of cicadas that only Xander can hear. More than any of that, there was love. Comfort so intense that he began to cry along with it.

Xander lost control of himself (and he won’t admit it but he pissed himself). His back arched with an orgasm that was all black and hot and red and angry and unmistakably his father (who was only ever hot and angry).

The grip on his throat loosened.

“Don’t stop.” Xander pleaded. “You promised you wouldn’t stop.”

The room would not be clean again. The walls were splattered with a fragmented loss of a few things in particular that neither had noticed were missing until years earlier. And the spaces between the floor were already irrevocably stained with pain and regret. That moment had ruined it as much as it had their relationship.

Is that irony or something?

“But you were whining just a minute ago about the pain. What changed your mind?” His father said it mockingly, barely out of the reach of Xander’s cognitive functions.

He struggled to move himself and collapsed instead in a puddle of bodily fluids.

“I hadn’t meant it.” His words trickled out with a stream of saliva. “It was my body’s reaction to the sudden pain. Nothing more.”

“In that case, answer me. What have I done to make you hate me? Am I too rough? Too gentle? Have I become unappealing to you? Or have you inherited some sadist gene from my side of the family? All of those? None of them? I just want to understand you, Xander.” Light touches graced Xander’s back.

Tender and bare as the caresses of a woman. Xander remembers thinking (unclouded from the years of adulthood);

“Oh. He’s in pain too.”

“I can’t hate you, Father. I never could and I never will. Must I prove this to you?” He could not tell you if this response was born of his own fear for himself and his future or from the revelation.

Was it alright to still hate his father although his body must be twice as weary as his mind twice as broken as Xander’s? When he himself wanted mercy so desperately that it plagued his dreams? Probably not but he can not control an emotion. He hated regardless. And he almost hated himself for being born as part of this… whatever this was.

He understood then too why his father had said he never wanted Xander to be born the way he was. It wasn’t to be cruel, was it? Or perhaps he’s just making excuses.

Even so, he would do anything to please his father.

“After yesterday’s behaviour? Yes. But I won’t ask for too much since as I said, I can not stand looking at your crying face. So, if you only endure everything that I have saved up for you, we can continue on as we always have. Our love shall carry in the way that a cat feels for its master. You shall be my enigmatic, temperamental pet and I, your all forgiving thrall.”

Anything at all. Because Xander was afraid of the dark and the night and emptiness. He was afraid of lacking a motivation. So he needed someone to define a purpose for him; a reason why it’s okay to exist. He needed company. Someone to hold him without recoiling. Ryouma.

But he must have gotten that trait from his father as well. He must have. For if his father is the same man that is so cold and distant while loathing that Xander may loathe him. The same man who can not bear to be replaced or rejected or forgotten even if it’s only for a moment. He collects children in the same way that Mercenaries collect swords and battle scars and speaks of Xander as if he is a treasured item to others. Surely, his father feels the same way about Xander as Xander does about him.

“Or we will end it right here. With a few mere words from you, I will have your body repaired and returned to your bedroom within the hour. And I shall never touch you again. Thus, our relationship shall become that of a moderately amiable father and son although I won’t look at you for too long lest I yearn for Paradise again. In that case, you will be free to wear what you want, eat what you want, love who you want. Be the kind of man who understands nothing about his world without input or punishment. In fact, I shall leave Camilla alone as well though she’s done nothing to deserve it.” A scrawling lament that had more bitterness than one ought to.

It told him… it said… it whispered… Dear God, Xander just didn’t want to be alone anymore! That was it! The sole reason he sought to save his bloodstained body! If he had died there, it would be another matter but it wasn’t as if he had anyone else! There wasn’t a person in the world that he could ever tell about this! No one could understand. So what else was he supposed to do? He was afraid, goddamnit! He was afraid!

“I love you so much that I can’t even think of living that way. So please, Father, reform me into something just for you!” Xander rolled onto his back.

“There’s the boy I fell in love with.” Hands embraced the, metaphorically, degenerating skin of Xander’s sides. “Now, hold that pose. It’s perfect.”

The flesh was more sensitive than it had ever been before (or after). As if a million needles had stabbed beneath the upper layers of his skin and twisted into each and every nerve within their reach. The first stab emplified that to the point where Xander bit his tongue so he wouldn’t pass out. But the second erased it with heat. Warmth like that of boiling milk spread through Xander’s veins and scalded all they went past. Until his head was hot and slippery and erotic. Until his thoughts of loneliness seemed as distant as the sun behind the Earth.

“Oh dear, I must have cut deeper than I had wanted to. We’ll have to be quick with this.” The pain was rivalled only by the discomfort of being penetrated again. Of a cock reaching all the way to Xander’s prostate and beating at it.

The sword punctured his spine. Going so deep into it that he was rendered unable to support himself. He shivered as his left arm fell hard against the ground. It broke again on impact; badly enough that the bone stuck from it. More accurately, it peeled away from the muscle and skin like it had never belonged there. Surely, that was a sort of allegory but Xander was too cold to think of one.

The knife pulled out with a splatter of blood like cum. It ruined all that it touched with liquid so dark that it didn’t seem real. Xander cried out like his blood had turned into snow. Like he was sweating frost. No, he really was sweating frost.

His father wedged the blade between the floorboards and Xander’s gut and as he pounded into him, it thrusted upwards and split his stomach in two.

In hindsight, he must have been dying.

His father dropped him, smashing the knife in further. His fingers prodded and pulling at the inside of Xander’s stomach, spreading it open. By that point, Xander couldn’t focus on anything but actions and feelings, not even managing concern for what might happen next. The worst thing that could have happened was he would die and that wouldn’t have been so bad at all.

Xander fell, digging the knife in further. Fingers prodded and pulled at the inside of his stomach and spread it open. Xander could no longer focus on anything but actions and feelings, not even managing so much as concern for his future. The worst thing that could happen, he thought, was he would die. And that wouldn’t have been so bad at all.

“I want to fuck your stomach. Sit up.” His father tugged on the broken bone of Xander’s arm.

“I can’t move.” Xander’s words twitched out his mouth with a splattering of blood.

“Yes, you can.” His father propped him up against the wall. “I won’t ask for anything else so please, just indulge me.”

“Yes, you can.” His father propped Xander up against the wall.

Fingertips defiled Xander’s viscera. They snaked and forced their way into every piece of him. There was nothing that did not belong to his father by this point.

He defiled Xander’s viscera with his fingertips. Snaking and forcing their way into every piece of him so that there was nothing that did not belong to his father by this point.

He came again. All the way up his father’s stomach.

“I love you, Papa.” He moaned.

Xander screamed afterwards. His father’s shaft worked its way between his intestines and pistoned in and out. Blood mingled with precum and acid, changing Xander’s insides into a glossy and faint pink.

“You are a child, aren’t you Xander? Speaking to me as a little boy would. Well, I’ll forgive that I love you too.”

His stomach hurt so badly he wanted to scream. It was so much worse than anything else he had felt before. Hot and cold and hot and cold with nausea glaring over his life like a veneer of oil paint. He was being beaten to death. Like someone was taking a bat and hitting his gut again and again and again.

Brown blood slid from Xander’s lips embracing his father’s mouth as the two met in a surprisingly gentle kiss.

Xander tried very hard not to die.

***

No one ever fixed that lock. It remained, fixed and broken from that experience in a way that Xander almost considers a metaphor for his own psyche. And just like Xander, if Ryouma really wanted to, he could break it with nothing more than some words and his hands and be free like that. He could probably run all the way out to the Forbidden Forest with no one getting in his way, so fast and deep into the darkness that Xander would only dream of catching him.

No one had ever fixed that lock. It remained fixed and broken from the experience in a way that Xander considers symbolic of his own psyche. And just like himself, if Ryouma really wanted to, he could break it with nothing more than some words and his hands and be free like that. He could probably run out to the Forbidden Forest with no one getting his way. Swallowed up by the darkness and smell of petrichor so that Xander would only dream of catching him.

But you already knew that, didn’t you?

And Xander knows that Ryouma won’t. For he loves Ryouma to the point where his skin is sloughing off. To the point where all he can taste is blood and the inside of his eyes smell like white noise. And because Ryouma loves Xander to the point where he is willing to slow go mad in this red and gold room.

“I’d like to ask you something. Can I?” He walks against Xander’s side, brushing their hands together.

It was almost certainly only because the hallway was too small for a man of Ryouma’s broadness to walk a distance away from someone half as muscular as Xander but his vagus nerve attributed it to affection anyway. It could have been, you know. A declaration of love.

“Ask what you will. It is not as if I’m obliged to answer you.” But he will anyway since this is Ryouma.

“You idiot.” The insect in his brain hisses in a mockery of his own voice.

But what can be done? He’s lonely.

“The scars across your body, one your thighs and stomach and neck, your father made them, didn’t he?” Ryouma embraces Xander’s fingers (they turn clammy with just a touch).

“He knows what he’s doing.” His skin itches. Shut up. “That beautifully manipulative demon.”

“Why does it matter?” He squeezes Ryouma’s hand until it’s painful.

Shut up!

“Because I want to know what I might be getting into.” Ryouma looks off into the distance and allows Xander to memorize his profile.

It is significantly rounder tha his own with lips protruding somewhat sullenly and a nose that ends in a curve. Like it’s sneering at everyone all the time. But there is such definition in those cheekbones and with it, he looks dreadfully like Corrin. Except Corrin can only dream of being even half as beautiful as Ryouma. The boy’s glossy eyes (lacking the ability to understand humiliation or pain or hate like a child’s) can not compare the the dull waning moon, the immeasurable sorrow, that are buried in Ryouma’s.

“And because I want to know who’s hurt you.” How can Xander resist such obviously flattering words when Ryouma says them like that?

When he speaks with a reasonable sociability that Corirn completely lacks. How can he resist when Ryouma acts as if he has love inside of himself? Unlike Corrin who never had it in there to look at scum like anything but scum. Ah, that’s also a lie. Corrin looks at mass murderers much in the way that a little boy looks at a lost dog. Adoringly. But he’ll never extend the courtesy to Xander. Instead, he stares at his older brother like he was a pigeon hit by a carriage wheel; partially decaying in a way that generates disgust and pity in equal measure. The mourning of a loss of a life but hating but it had become and what it will turn it.

It’s funny, you know. After all the time that they had spent together, after everything that Xander had done to help him, after the the suffering that he has endured for his sake, Corrin treats him worse than his enemy. At least Ryouma understands the value of familial love. Possibly more than Xander does. After all, he did go to all this trouble for someone he didn’t even know solely because they were brothers once. A very long time ago. So long ago it hardly even matters.

“He did. But you aren’t to blame him for it, Ryouma. My Father is blinded with war and grief, having lost his mind when he lost my Mother. And I would not say that I am unhappy with the way my life has gone. Each mark is a declaration of love permanently carved onto my skin and each harsh word an expression of desire. I would not want it any other way.”

“Forgive me for this but, you’re obviously lying.” Of course he is. “You don’t want that kind of relationship at all.”

Xander’s skin itches with hives that only he can see. But there’s nothing to be done about it so he scratches then open until he bleeds.

“You can only, really, be satisfied with the kind of love where both parties mutually abuse one another in the name of pleasure. Where you suffer while receiving something in return. I am sorry that your Father can not and will not provide that for you. That he’s kept you locked inside of a box of neuroticism and emotional dependency so you can’t leave him won’t reject, him while ignoring your own desires. He’s doing this to psychologically damage you, I think. Why else would he hurt me? Especially when he knows full well what kind of relationship we have.”

Xander rubs his arm beyond bleeding.

“And he’s bored of you anyway, isn’t he?” Ryouma asks in a somewhat nonchalant way. “He only returned home because he heard that I was here, not for your sake. But you know, it really doesn’t have to be like this.”

“Yes, it does. And I don’t want to talk about it anymore.” Until he reaches the point where he is clawing at muscle more than skin.

What a mess.

***

Xander woke up with his skin itching and bandages that curled all the way up this forearms. With his stomach itching like it’d gone mad and a thin layer of semen still covering it. He looked around the room with something that wasn’t curiosity but he didn’t know a better word for it and smiled at the side of a room barely fifteen feet wide.

Ah, he’d been abandoned again.

If he knew this was going to happen, he’d rather have been strangled. Although, Xander was sure that his father came that day with the intent to kill him. After all, he hadn’t brought an Elixir. But the selfish bastard never throws away anything he thinks he might want later.

But it didn’t really matter, did it? Xander could find someone else. Anyone else would do. And then who would be unnecessary?

 

 

He starved in that room, you know. Food was delivered twice a day through holes in the walls that he could not find and water twice as often. But he was hungrier than he had ever been before. You must understand, it wasn’t a hunger strike again or anything so petty. Simply that stimulus is food for the brain and stuck inside of that tiny room for however long it was slowly rotted away. The days blurred into a formless mass and his brain melted, falling out of his ears and mouth. Withering, decaying.

Resignation came from that hunger. It coiled desperately inside of his skull to stop the rot from spreading.

Xander slept on his cot and walked around the circumference of the room. He banged and screamed on the walls and thought about all the things that got him into the situation. He decided he hates Gunter for running away from like that and his father twicefold for not having the balls to kill him and God knows he hated Corrin for being born that way. For being so pure and gentle when he could not manage to be either. He hated Camilla, too, for having been born without the good sense to be as angry and bitter as himself and Leo for having been spared. He almost hated Elise as well for being born in a kinder time. But mostly, he hated himself for having been so weak as to get himself into this lifestyle anyway. It was his own fault he was suffering, wasn’t it?

If he had not tried to run then… Ah, it’s didn’t matter. It wouldn’t have changed anything anyway.

 

 

 

That night, Xander slept for eighteen hours and took solace in his dreams. The sun was red at midnight and the water that surrounded him was dark black and tasted and stained like rust. A distant hurricane came and told him many things about the universe. That there was someone out there always fighting for him. That there was someone waiting to love him. That someone could understand. He wasn’t very lonely.

The human body is good at adapting to things. He didn’t have to eat or drink as often as he used to and although his body was wasting away. He felt good. His head was exploding.

 

 

 

Stimulus is food for the brain. Xander was starving. He slept eighteen hours every night and dreamt of memories. Oh, he’d been abandoned, hadn’t he?

He already said that. But this time he says this out.

Xander kisses his wrist. He bites down hard enough to taste blood. He peels back the skin, almost hoping to kill himself before his father comes. If he was was coming. There was no way of knowing that, was there? So of course he would do this.

He scratched at the exposed veins and let it burst like a ripe fruit. But there was no way he could kill himself like this. His brain rejected the notion of death in such a visceral way. So he instead let the blood drip slowly from the wound. Until he felt inclined to masturbate. For eroticism is a stimulus to the brain.

He slid out from his leggings and exposed his cock to the coldness of the air. The pain of chill only served to add to the fetishism of his situation as he ran his fingertips over his bloodied wrist. It throbbed and ached as he pistoned in and out and with a low groan, he lowered his hands to rub himself off instead. The blood acted as a lubricant and allowed him to stroke himself to a full erection. Until he was dripping precum in the same way his wrist was red. It was a filthy, shuddering feeling like ants crawling over your skin and he reveled in it.

Xander spat into his other hand and used that too; bucking into the passion of bodily fluids like a bitch in heat. His brain was on fire. Smoldering. Neurons firing for the first time in… God, he still doesn’t know how long he was in there for. Pressure mounted and he came with a scream.

Pain is sex. A laughable concept that was nonetheless true. And in turn, sex was stimulus for the brain.

Therefore, pain was food for the brain.

Xander cried until his throat was red and swollen. It felt like cardboard.

 

 

He started to die. First, by collapsing and sleeping in the corner of the room instead of his cot. Then eating as an animal would. And sleeping. Xander slept twenty two hours a day. And when he wasn’t doing that, he was pleasuring himself. But what could he have done? What else could have stopped him from going completely mad?

Yet, he feels as if he went insane anyway.

He lapped the water out of dishes and ate food off the floor. He slept where he ate. He stopped wearing clothing. Stopped sending his dishes back for collection. God, he was subhuman. Happily coated in blood and come and grime accumulated for a month or three or six without bathing. He was disgusting with wrists slowly bleeding and scarring all the time and a face covered in self-inflicted wounds.

Xander wonders what his father must have thought when he finally opened the door and saw that? Of course, he had probably intended for this to happen anyway. Some extra insurance to make sure that Xander was truly, thoroughly loyal and would not abandon him although he’d been thrown away himself.

The first thing he did upon seeing light was to kneel as deep as he could go (the stone ground was mercifully cold) and screamed.

“Please, forgive me!” He wept like a child of seven rather than seventeen. “Please, I’m so sorry! I’m so, so sorry!”

His face felt so hot. Like it was melting. Xander ground it onto the floor so it would stop hurting but it just bled instead.

“What have you done to yourself, Alexander?” Was it fair to ask him that when it was his Father’s own fault he was like that anyway?

“Forgive me.” He whimpered and flinched away from any touches.

A scoff.

“Of course you were going to go insane. Of course you were. What had I expected? Go. Clean yourself up. You smell like shit.”

Why wouldn’t he? There was not a bath in there nor was there any reason to bathe. Actually, his father was rather lucky that the smell was not actual shit. It could very well have been.

But Xander did as he was told and carries himself out of the room with shaking legs (that were not really fit to carry him anywhere). The moon’s light swallowed him up once more. So round and light that he began to cry. He must have been reborn. Naked and covered in shit and blood. That seemed fitting.

His father trailed behind him with an expression that wasn’t bored. Apathetic, maybe. He ran the bath as if Xander had forgotten. Ran it as cold as ice. As if Xander had not spent his most recent memories inside of a room without any insulation. But he was blistering so there was nothing else to be done.

“Does your stomach hurt?” His father trailed a finger down the scar, rubbing it down with water.

It was warm to the touch and all puckered up. As if stitched hastily and by someone with little experience. Oh. His father probably did it himself.

“Of course it does.” Xander smiled uneasily.

For that smooth tone, those words of good intent, were the most manipulative beast of them all. That day, among some others things, he realized what good was. Simply another form of manipulation. Insidious and unstoppable. Or rather, that was what ‘nice’ was. Gunter tried to be good and he was a rather rough voiced man. Nothing like his father. Nothing like him at all...

Ah. That too was a revelation. Xander knows what he wants.

 

 

It was a good hour before they finished and another ten minutes before Xander was fully dressed. Forcing one’s self into leggings with sopping skin is never the best of plans. His body smelt of oil and fat and rust. Was the water rusting? It couldn’t have been and it didn’t matter if it had.

What were his true thoughts back then? The only that made him tremble just standing before his father? The one that he saw swirling on the tiles of the bathroom floor (as it was too scary to look up)? He wonders right now what kind of person he was back then. For his memories are buried beneath ice and snow. Buried under a lake of all of his adulthood regrets.

“And other than that, you are alright, aren’t you? I am truly worried about you, Xander.”

“You are fine other than your new scar, right? Please, I am truly worried about you Xander.” His father mutter.

He had to right to call Xander that when he had just gone and throw him away without a second glance. He had no right to address Xander at all.

“I’m strong, Father. It will take twice as much as that to even begin to cause me pain.” But that was ultimately a lie.

He wasn’t strong at all. It was with weakness that he went and rubbed up against his father’s side like a cat with the kind of expression they were both all too familiar with. Smiling subtly with his lips pulled back and eyes closed. As if he wasn’t fully there right now. It was unbearably painful.

“Forgive me, Xander. I am not in the mood right now but perhaps tomorrow in the morning.” Xander grasps the air as his father pulled away and started down the hallway at a pace that said “Don’t follow me, boy.”

He expected that somewhat. Anticipated he would say it if it did not hold such a positive connotation. Reckoned perhaps is a more suitable alternative although it stings in his mouth like low class. Regardless, it hurt as if his soul was now being stabbed. Because after all, Xander still loved his father. Dear God, he still loved the bastard. Even after this body had been ruined and his mind, sight afire. After his soul started to die in a room that was only thirty feet cubed. After he realized what exactly happened to his mother. He loved him to the point where he stood there crying. To the point where he started to scratch at his wrists again. To insanity!

Oh. This was all his own fault.

He tentatively reached out to his father, latching onto his jacket and gently tugging. His father punched him in the face with a flash of what must have been remorse.

“Go to bed, Xander. Sleep this off.”

The spaces around Xander’s head smelt of decay. But it was too late. It was all much, much too late.

***

“High Prince Ryouma.” His father coos.

Xander ought to have been relieved at his fate. It meant that there was no more ‘remorse’, no more ‘punishment’, no more ‘love’ but instead, something lingered where those emotions used to be. Well, of course he would be upset. His father had promised this wouldn’t happen. That he wouldn’t be thrown away. And that was exactly what happened.

He doesn’t even know why. But it was probably something stupid anyway.

“I see my boy has done quite the number on you. Pray, tell me, has he slit your stomach yet?” The King (Garon is not Xander’s father when there are guests around) laughs as if it were some kind of joke.

It is a joke though, to Xander as well. Some dark comedy with himself as the tragically ironic hero at the centre. The notion burns the scar on Xander’s stomach and he laughs too. With the kind of falseness that only his family has mastered. He laughs with malice.

Ryouma is so very different. With an emotional durability that Xander can only dream of possessing (or breaking), he stares at Garon. His eyes carry the strength of forged steel, crackling with a lightening that’s hot enough to sting.

“A question for a question, your Highness. Before I can answer, I have to know. Does it still hurt where my father stabbed you, pig?” There is a venom in his insult that is so intense, it hurts Xander for standing too close.

Garon shrugs it off like nothing. But if words were enough to hurt him, Xander would not be living this kind of life. Then again, he wouldn’t have done anything if he could.

“Considerably. But I bet the crown that I’ve coped better with my injuries than you with yours.” The King smiled condescendingly. “You’ve been electrocuted, beaten, punctured with needles, molested, burnt and broken all before coming here, isn’t that right? My dearest Xander has turned you into his plaything without his Father’s watch. How do you feel?” Is he not even being addressed?

Will his father not even speak to him face to face; earnestly as father and son again? Of course not. To him, Xander is a thing for amusement. His father didn’t know that he had feelings and wants that did not coincide with his own. He had probably never even consider such a thing.

“So I have.” Xander mutters.

The threat beyond the veil of stoicism goes completely over Garon’s head. Since he isn’t paying any attention to Xander at all.

“Well come on, strip. I want to see if Sumeragi managed to produce better offspring than I.” He glosses over the comment with a laugh.

This isn’t fair so Xander smiles. He hasn’t seen this sadistic glint in his father’s eyes in five, maybe even ten, years and this one is all for Ryouma. All of this was for Ryouma. It wasn’t a gift or a marking of status. Xander was foreplay. But he won’t blame Ryouma for that. He certainly hadn’t asked for this and Xander is, ultimately, not going to blame others for his father’s sins. Not anymore.

Ryouma slides his kimono to the ground and exposes his body. It seems even stronger than before; marked with scars and bruises that persist even with vulnerary after vulnerary. He looks like a God sculpted out of steel.

Juxtaposing it, his chest has swollen yet again. Xander doesn’t doubt that he’s start to produce and more than likely, has become addicted to the drug. His father wouldn’t have the skill or good sense to do that.

“I must say, you have grown rather busty since I have last seen you. Far larger than my boy here. In more ways that one. Come, let me touch you.” Garon waves Ryouma over with a lascivious grin.

Ryouma glances to Xander with an expression of pity (soft eyes and a hard jaw) before walking to Garon’s side.

“Although you come to me at beck and call, your will is remarkably strong. Is this a result of my boy’s torture of you or a natural manifestation of Sumeragi’s failure to raise a strong child?” There’s another laugh.

Xander sneers. In fact, he snarls but Garon won’t notice that either. No matter what Xander does, no one will ever pay any attention to him. He supposes that is also part of his motivation.

It’d be better if he’d just stop laughing.

“Your son has not even come close to breaking my will. Even so, I think that you will find that he has done far better at harming me than you could. At the very least, I lack the overbearing urge to snap his neck like a calf’s that I feel while staring at you.” Ryouma remarks in a thunderous voice.

Xander shudders with feelings of love for it.

“We’ll see.” Garon turns to Xander for the first time. “He’s your quarry, dear boy, so how would you like me to go about this? I can be as nasty or kind as you’d like me to be.”

It’s that just ironic? Or something like it, anyway. His father only shows his fangs when there is someone to impress. Once again discarding Xander for the sake of a Hoshidan boy. If he didn’t know any better, he would think his father has some kind of complex.

But really though, what made them so much more desirable than him? Their youthful looks? The resistance on their faces and in their hearts? Was it the idea of defying Sumeragi who was the only man to even cause Garon any trouble? The idealistic expression that they all seem to hold? If Xander asked, he isn’t sure he would get an answer. Goddamnit.

“Father, his flesh is as strong as his soul. So I would not bother with either. Instead, how about we all just enjoy ourselves.” The words “As we used to” dance in the air but remain unsaid; hovering where Xander’s regrets lay.

Moreso and further, they erode his denial and willful blindness of events prior. Memories rush back as they were experienced. Like a dam has been broken. Xander fades out. He returns to a time long ago through memories viewed across blood dripping from his palms. It isn’t really there, of course.

In the span of four and a half seconds, he looks stupidly into space as a flood of ‘stop’ and ‘no’ run across his mind. Every resistance, every pleased that masqueraded as a yes, every stunned silence, he feels their looming presence. Hands wrap around his throat and scars from knives and nails start to hurt the same as they did when they were made. His track marks itch and no scratching does them any good.

What can be done about this? About his ruined body and ugly heart? Please, something, somebody, give him an answer for this pain.

His eyes fill up with a pure white darkness and it tells him his answer, muffled by the light Autumn rain.

Xander smiles like he’s satisfied.

“Warm him up for me then. You know how I hate foreplay.” And still, no one notices.

Or if Ryouma does, he doesn’t say anything. Then again, what would he say? “Xander’s gone mad”? Who would listen to that? Any of his family would blow off such a claim and anyone out of it would already know. It isn’t as if he is a pinnacle of mental health or anything.

He strips himself off, removing his shirt and pants unceremoniously before dealing with his underwear. He glances at Ryouma, smiling quietly with what he knows must be a bit of madness. It’s a confession of his love.

Xander pushes Ryouma down to the terribly cold ground and starts working with his tongue. He runs it across the tip of Ryouma’s cock, drawing moans of a deniable nature, before making his way down the shaft. His lips dance flawlessly. They neither hitch nor hesitate even when he takes the entire thing inside of himself. There is a part of Xander that wants to look and see Garon’s response to his sudden skill but he knows he’ll get a brow raise at best. Instead, he focuses on Ryouma until his body becomes perfectly attuned to his needs.

Xander might as well dedicate his life to the Ryouma that has pitied him enough to say such kind things. Although Xander does not deserve them.

He pulls off and moves down Ryouma’s body; stopping briefly at the testes. With the utmost care, Xander takes one in his mouth and blows against it. Ryouma whimpers. Xander takes that as a sign to be faster, go rougher. So he slides down and starts to lick the rim of Ryouma’s ass.

“Don’t do that!” He covers his face with both hands.

It seems almost if they are lovers on their wedding night. Is this how Ryouma will be when they’re wed?

Xander press further inside, inserting his tongue in as far as it will go. Using both hands, he takes Ryouma’s cock and masturbates him to a discordant rhythm. Two pumps sequentially and a slower one with something violent and painful mixed in. Xander is still, ultimately, angry at Ryouma you see. If only because he had no idea how much pain he was in until Ryouma brought it up. But the King’s word is absolute so Xander stays as he is in spite of that.

He massages Ryouma’s manhood with his other hand. Ryouma himself soon begins to approach orgasm. Writhing, squeaking and crying out as if he never experience such pleasures before.So Xander pulls away and leaves behind a trail of spit on Ryouma’s entrance.

“Is that acceptable, my King?” He wonders if his Father can hear the halfhearted quality in his voice.

But only briefly.

“Keep going. I’m not sure a virgin could handle my girth.” If he hears that laugh one more time, Xander thinks his head might explode.

He takes his index finger and presses it against Ryouma’s ass. If only to make this stop.

“Tell me if it hurts.” But he pushes in anyway.

Ryouma screams out with pain and pleasure and the unconscious desire for escape. Oh, so this really is only his second time. It seems fair that Xander gets it, does it not? He punches Ryouma in the gut. Hard enough to see spit fly, for a bruise to immediately begin to blossom like a rose. Red and tender to the touch.

“Don’t get so rough, boy. Ryouma needs to last. I won’t accept anything else.” Garon shouts from where he knows he’s in no danger.

Somehow, his father is seeming incredibly insolent. Xander is the one who caught Ryouma, the one who provided the necessary manipulations, the one who is taking such good care of him. And his father acts as if Xander should let him get away?

Well, that’s it. Xander won’t be abandoned again. No one will leave him ever again. He won’t be thrown away or obsolete. He won’t be anyone’s slave!

He reaches up and lightly presses a single finger against Ryouma’s prostate. Ryouma violently shrieks with an arousal so deep that it sends the crack of thunder down Xander’s spine. He trusts in and out, adding a second finger as soon as Ryouma starts to calm. It’s difficult without lubricant, of course but he can make do. If it starts to look too painful, he drips saliva down. If it looks too rough, he slows. Such care must be taken in maintaining the affections of a man of Ryouma’s class.

Even so, Xander is not aroused in the slightest. Although, neither that nor anything else about this situation is Ryouma’s fault, he just wants to get this over with. Turn it into just another painful experience tossed in the corners of his mind.

Xander kneels down and takes Ryouma’s cock in his mouth again; spreading his ass wide enough that one could peer into it at the same time. Ryouma grabs onto Xander’s shoulders and cuts the blades with his nails. He can’t handle pleasure at all.

“Good boy.” His Father doesn’t get up from the throne. “Bring him here.”

Xander pulls away and stands (Ryouma is staying where he is, whimpering with the feeling of emptiness). He has never felt calmer than he does now. That is likely the reason why he isn’t really enjoying this.

“My King, please take me first instead. I can’t bear it any longer.” Xander pulls his leggings down and exposes himself.

The fact that he was only half hard should have been a warning. But his father simply laughs for he was born without sense.

“Your masculine ego is ruined, Alexander. You’ve surpassed the point where I can help you. Yet, I still feel inclined to improve your situation. Come to Daddy.” No, he hasn’t changed at all.

“Your ego is ruined, Alexander. You have long since surpassed the point where I can help you. Yet, I still feel as if I owe you as much to improve your situation. Come to Daddy.” That was how it was going to be, then.

It would be as if that day had never happened and those years had continued on as he wanted to. There was no regret or age or meaning to this story. There is no meaning to anything at all.

Xander sits on his father’s lap and grinds against his cock. It’s already hard.

“Do what you like, my dear. I leave for Mokushu tomorrow evening so I fear our time is limited. Thus, you ought to use it as you see fit. Consider it a coming home and farewell gift in one.” For a brief moment, Xander wonders if he knows what he’s about to do.

But surely, that can’t be it.

Xander slides off and gets down on his knees, exposing his father’s erection from his tights. With his teeth, he peels away the foreskin without any tenderness and starts to suck and lick the newly exposed tip. Within seconds, he’s taken it halfway in and shows no signs of stopping. He grinds his thumb into the sensitive portion between his fingers; digging until it bleeds and throbs. The act allows him to force his jaw wider and take the shaft all the way to hilt.

He slides up and down it, using spit as lubricant, at a reasonable pace. He moves slowly around the tip and picks up pace down the rest of it. And with just a thought, he effortlessly tightens his throat while pulling away.

“You’ve only gotten better since I left.” Fingers bury in Xander’s hair, somehow pulling him down even farther.

He chokes. Spluttering as he tries to pull off. Naturally, it’s to no avail. So what can he do but continue his cycle? Bobbing up and down, three shallows one and then two long ones for a while and then just doing whatever pleases him, as the pressure in his mouth builds. A hand tugs his hair, lifting him off (red faced and covered in spittle).

“You’re a mess. Poor thing.” Does Garon just not care? About Xander? About any of this?

Xander is wearing his sword on his back and he doesn’t care. Why is that? Is it because he thinks that Xander has been completely tamed? Is that why all of this has happened? Xander had stopped responding, stopped begging, began to appreciate the painful things in his life and this is his payment for that, is it not? Or was it that he was being tamed simply to deal with Ryouma or Corrin all along?

His father lifts him up to ride, settling him down on the base of his cock. For a harsh moment, Xander wonders if he’ll have to face Ryouma but his father lets him do as he will instead. So Xander slams down onto his father’s cock with a cry.

“Thank you!” Xander’s head hurts.

Why was he born just to suffer and die, anyway?

Hands wraps around Xander’s hips, moving him to their preferred pace. A speed at which Xander wouldn’t refer to as far but would not call slow either. It’s even. Regardless, Xander bucks and moans like a dog in heat, putting his entire body into the act. When an opportunity is given to lean in, he kiss sloppily and with a tongue that dances as if on fire. When he can lean back, he plays up an an expression of ecstasy. Solely for Ryouma’s sake.

It’s through this that the act because spiritual. Xander allows himself to go numb with only the intense grinding on his prostate replacing any sexual sensations with jolts of arousal. He fades out again. As if his body were traveling to the dreamlike state generated by death. Like he were in pain (ah, someone listening to his silent prayer on a different level of subconscious).

A fragment of youth swims into his stream of consciousness. A time before Ryouma, even before Corrin, before his gentleness slowly fell his heart and his body became polluted and lonesome. He doesn’t want to be here right now. So he isn’t.

He dreams during the day (he can not say if this was a real memory or not) his mother hasn’t yet passed on and Camilla is a faint concept in the back of his mind. She existed but so far from him that he never thought about her or the ramifications of her birth.

Xander stood by the side of the road, holding onto his father’s hand despite being far too old for such things.

“I’ve something for you Xander.” His father only ever called him Xander back then.

It was like it was his actual name.

Nervously, he shifted where he stood and looked away. Making eye contact filled him with anxiety.

“Normally, I’d wait until you were sixteen but your Mother is retiring and I prefer axes these days so I thought I might start training you.” His father passed Siegfried to him with a gentle touch (their hands met; Xander’s soft and light coloured and his father’s rough and dark). “And besides, I think you deserve it.”

It looked twice as big as it was in Xander’s hand. More like an Executioner’s blade than a cavalier’s. But it was strangely light. At the age of just eleven, Xander could spin it with ease. Even so, it trailed against the ground for it was only shorter than he was tall.

“I shouldn’t be holding this. I’m not ready.” Xander muttered.

His Father laughed at the very notion.

“You think too poorly of yourself, Xander. You’re as strong as I am and with the good heart of your Mother but that indomitable will that neither of us can hope to match. The only thing that I feel you lack is training and confidence in your abilities.” He ruffled Xander’s hair until it was all out of place. “Let’s get started then, shall we?”

The memory vanishes as it came; with the sensation of blood moving behind Xander’s eyes. For a brief moment, Xander wonders if he and his father will really ever understand each other. The thought is gone beneath a shower of blood.

“Why? Why? Why?” Xander’s screams break like rotten wood, releasing a sea of repressed emotions down his cheeks.

He has spent his life living dead inside of acceptance and denial. A willful blindness to the sins of his father and the nature of himself and the world he lives in. An ironic hell all his own.

Snot mixes with the blood and tears coating Xander’s face. Ah, he looks like a child. A child chasing after a cold and uncaring father yet again. This is it, isn’t it? This is the end of everything (but really their love had died before now and even before that room; it left them when Xander’s mother did). The end of an era or something like that anyway.

“Is that really all you want to ask me?” His Father’s words are remarkably clean, choked out with bursts of blood and something that sounds like laughter. “You disappoint me.”

“I waited for you! I worshipped you! I loved you! Why are you doing to this me! Why? Why? Why! Why does everyone leave me!” Xander’s true self comes out from the fog of rage.

Surely Ryouma’s going to grow to hate him now.

“I don’t want to hear that bullshit from you, Xander. Your pain is your own fault. You chase everyone away. Almost intentionally. Don’t you think?”

Impotently, inhumanly shrieking, Xander bashes at his father’s skull with Siegfried as if it were a club. Chunks of meat break off and splash Xander and himself. Bits of his father’s face break off until he’s no longer recognizable. And still, Xander continues. Again and again and again and again. And then again and again and again. And moreso and further and and and and!

With a miscalculated swing, he knocks them both to the ground. Xander’s hands are slick with blood and he tastes it like come in his mouth. He doesn’t stop riding his father, of course, since there is no other meaning to his life! There was no other reason why he was born! And if there was, he either broke it or gave it away.

The blade slips from his fingers.

“Please, tell me that you love me. I don’t care if it’s a lie.” His voice is hoarse and quiet. Like he’s a little boy again.

Xander kisses his father’s broken lips with a few traces of regret. But it is too late for that, isn’t it? It has been too late for longer than it hasn’t been now. They both knew this was inevitable. It all was. Their futures had been scripted from the day his father held him down and torn his body to shreds. This is just another manifestation of his father’s will, isn’t it! Xander still can’t fucking live on his own!

“I love you Alexander. Far more than your Mother, far more than Camilla, far more than Kamui…” He laughs with his dying breath. An electrostatic burst giving him just enough strength to clumsily wipe the tears off Xander’s cheek.

Although, hilariously, it only ends up smearing blood and spit across Xander’s face.

“Goddamnit!” Xander sobs feverish and claws at his father’s neck with both hands. His nails hurt. His stomach hurts. His tonsils hurt. “I won’t let you win! Do you hear that? I won’t let you control me! Or Ryouma! Or anyone else! I am not my mother, you bastard! Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!”

Xander slashes at the meat of his father’s chest and bounces up and down on that cock that’s still warm. It feels good, after all. He masturbates with his free hand. Messily jacking himself with fingers barely able to grip anything.

It’s so ugly.

“Ah… It’s warm.” He comes and stands, wiping his mouth off on his sleeves.

It doesn’t help any.

“What have you done?” Ryouma calls out in a surprisingly deadpan voice. He expected this too, didn’t he?

Xander turns to him and laughs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry. I tried my best.
> 
> Also, the next update isn't going to start until after this month because I have a Halloween thing that I'd like to unveil instead. Forgive my cruelty.


	6. You Were Broken, Defiled, Beaten All Become Coming Here. Isn't That Right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's finally done! Rejoice as Ryouma starts the Death Spiral and the countdown towards his inevitably miserable fate! 
> 
> Felt unsure during the creation of this chapter so critique is encouraged.

In a Sea Filled to the Brim with Noise  
There was a Dog, My Failure of a Self and You

 _“What have you done?”_ It isn’t her voice. It is not even a little bit like her voice. Neither the words nor the tone nor the timbre nor even the pitch are like his mother at all. It isn’t like Marguerite’s either, though.

Xander takes a step forwards, a limp movement hiding the ecstasy spreading through his nerves like a disease, and it feels like eternity. A forever inside of an endlessly white sea. On a planet so pure that it creeps around in his throat and eyes and ears trying to beget some answer. It is the same kind of purity that Ryouma cherishes and Corrin revels in. The type that Xander can’t touch.

 _“Where are you going?”_ It’s a man’s voice. Familiar in its unfamiliarity.

Between Ryouma and Xander there is nothing but a sea of noise. A Paradise of light and shadow where only he and the man he worships to the point of tears need exist. A place of dedication without cruelty, love without family. The world of the blank page. Free from fathers with wandering hands and mothers who can not give enough love to keep their sons moving forwards. Here, there is no need for smothering little sisters or brothers who can not leave well enough alone; who rely on their big siblings entirely. Certainly, there is no need for Corrin (who Xander is sure Ryouma blames, too).

None of that is necessary.

 _“What are you living for?”_ It is not his father’s voice or Tyger’s or Corrin’s. It isn’t even Laslow’s anymore. Actually, for a moment, it sounds a little like his own.

But familiarity takes over once more and something that could be called understanding spills out immaculate sand from Xander’s mouth.

“I killed my Father, Ryouma. Exactly how you wanted me to. For you. For the love of you. Because I love you so much that I can not say no to anything that you ask of me although I might wish to. Because I love you so much I feel like I might vomit. I love you more than I love myself. I love you more than I love Laslow. I love you more than I love breathing. I breathe for you sake. And I will die for you sake, Ryouma. I would kill anyone for you, Ryouma. Exactly how you want me to. Again and again and again and forever.” In his dreams, the voice is red and blue and light and unmistakable.

A pure white born of totally black darkness. The last thing he is holding on to. It’s Ryouma’s.

Everything is Ryouma.

The revelation strikes like a thunderclap, with a sensation so harsh that Xander’s stomach turns inside of him. Bile dances upwards as it performs an elegant ballet. Xander swallows it back down for his new, shining reason for existence doesn’t deserve to be disgraced in such a manner; to have to look at the terribly ugly Xander.

Xander kneels down to Ryouma and takes his hand, kissing the beautiful scars.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” His love’s face contorts into a snarl.

Xander can’t find any meaning in it.

“I dream of you Ryouma. I have dreamt of you. Nightmares and fantasies that lasted for days upon end. Where you were my closest companion and my saviour; the rain after a drought. You were a blossom springing up from the barren ground that was my heart.” Something inside of Xander is dying again. “In my dreams, you waited for me for months. For years. So long that I grew terribly, terribly afraid of meeting you!”

The amazing sensibility that had marked Xander’s tonsils is spreading further, crossing into his bloodstream. An infection. A septic shock made out of black words and memories that can not be forgotten. Bacterial madness.

“Frightened of losing my last attachment to myself! Of forgetting! But I’ve finally accepted it, Ryouma! I’m finally here for you! Completely and utterly dedicated to you! I’m waiting for you, wanting to understand you, loving you, hating you, worshipping you! Everything in my life is going to be all about you now!”

An ill intent turned parasitic; feeding off of Xander’s decaying gray matters and the flesh that falls off his body in fat soaked sheets. It is the very same disease that inflicted his father and his father’s father and so on and so on and so on. Malice.

Now, there really is nothing left.

“Don’t touch me.” Ryouma flinches.

Now he resists? When all is lost? When the symbiotic enmity has eaten its way through Xander’s prefrontal lobe, through his brain vagus nerve and his amygdala? When Xander has lost his emotions and purpose inside of a sea filled to the brim with noise? He must despise Xander, then.

“Despite the sacrifices that I’ve made for you, even after all that I have done for your sake, you look at me like that. With such… disappointment.” Xander pulls Ryouma into a refreshingly gentle kiss.

It mixes together wet blood with drying semen and flakes of meat that had stuck to Xander’s skin like a glue into a raison d'être. The flavours of love and existence swirl on Xander’s tongue and around Ryouma’s mouth, trying to shift into a more palatable form before being unceremoniously swallowed.

“It’s alright still. Because everything is going to be as it was meant to. For I am going to try and understand you at last and be understood in turn. It’s going to be just wonderful.” He wants Ryouma to bask in the flavours.

To realize what they mean.

“Come with me Ryouma, I have someone that I would like like you to meet.” He stands, offering Ryouma his hand.

Ryouma takes it readily. Although, it isn’t as if he really had a choice. Xander will not, simply can not handle another abandonment. It will pervert his psyche until he can do nothing else but scream. His body will go numb and his soul shall shatter into a million fragments of sharpened glass and the whole world will suffer for it. So he can not lose Ryouma.

If it was all a dream, Xander would still be happy to have someone that wanted him. Even for a moment. There isn’t anything wrong with that, is there?

…

No, there isn’t anything wrong with that, with wanting to be loved either; with asking for it. Is there even anything, really, wrong with demanding it? It isn’t as if Ryouma would be able to find redemption without it, anyway?

Ryouma has done nothing but steal and empty and corrupt and break and deny. He has snapped and used Xander until he can no longer remember his original self. Ryouma has devoured his love. Like Garon before and a handful of soldiers whose names Xander can not recall, Ryouma has manipulated him and tried to leave once Xander had gotten close. If it’s like that, is it truly wrong for Xander to want his love? Can you say that Xander doesn’t deserve it? He’s tried so hard already.

“Where are we going?” Ryouma moves slowly; sluggish as the roll of the incoming storm.

Ryouma’s bones must hurt. His body and brain must be breaking down, stopping and jerking like a broken record. Xander’s bones are hurting. He feels as if he is about to die right now and is only a little bit welcoming of it.

“My bedroom.” But he’ll still carry Ryouma if he asks. That’s just how he is. “Not for anything sexual or grotesque, I assure you. In that room there lies nothing but my most earnest feelings and the honest result of your actions.”

“You’re going to hurt me again.” Ryouma sighs.

He sounds so weak. Resigned. As if he almost wants to give up. Oh how beautiful that is going to be.

“Probably, yes. I think we will hurt one another until the end of our days, Ryouma. Because you hate me and I want so desperately to destroy you. Because we love each other.” Xander smiles even though he doesn’t feel particularly happy.

Well, he might be happy. It’s hard to tell you see, since he barely has a grasp on his own emotions. He doesn’t even have a friend or a lover or a sibling who isn’t as ruined as himself to tell him what he should be feeling and when. Likely, maybe partially a little bit, this is his father’s fault as much as it is his own. His father took Xander’s feelings and remade them into something unfamiliar for the sake of his own entertainment. And when he was bored with that Xander, he made another and another and another until Xander can not recall who or what he was originally. Perhaps he wasn’t anything at all.

But to be fair, after he was thrown away, Xander broke himself. So the blame isn’t solely on his parents. Really, isn’t this everyone’s fault? But mostly Xander’s. Even if the fault lies solely in being born. Somehow, this is more comforting than not (he doesn’t have to hate his father anymore, does he?).

Ryouma falters, seemingly unaware that faking things will only end up hurting the both of them. So Xander drags him the rest of the way there. Up the stairs still stained after all these years and across the hallways that shine only with the uneasing light of the moon. Xander wonders, idly, if this place has become comforting to Ryouma yet. If like himself, Ryouma has started to see the beauty of the dark. Surely he will at least start to see the comfort of it. Of iron doors and the night sky absent of stars. The purity in the apathy of it all. Is that not the Hoshidan way?

“Let’s sleep beside each other. Like lovers should.” Xander leads Ryouma over the threshold. Now there really is no going back.

Oh, he is more tired than he thought. As if his last moment as whatever he was and his first moment as whatever he is took the last of his energy away from him. Did he steal everything was left, then? The fleeting self-awareness? That daydreams that keep him living on?

“What are you living for? What is the point of your existence? Who are you?” Ryouma repeats in a nonchalant tone.

Something is missing. Disturbed. There is a feeling of discomfort that violates the muscles of Xander’s stomach. He can’t be suffering for no reason, this pain can not be without reason. Even this sensation of overwhelming wrongness must be happening for some cryptic reason.

“I live for you Ryouma.” He mutters in a daze, unsure if Ryouma has said anything at all. “For you and my dear, sweet Laslow are the only reasons for my existence. And I define myself entirely by you.”

Hearing his name, Laslow emerges from the shadows. He smiles gently, cutting perfectly through the pure white darkness of the room. A ray of light amidst a sea of choppy, blue hair. Xander smiles back at him and takes him into his arms. Laslow’s skin is unbelievably warm and his breathing, as deep and even as a riverbed born in a valley free of wind.

“There is no Xander without Ryouma anymore. No pure darkness with abhorrent light. No fear without unconditional love. Certainly, there is no pain without pleasure anymore.” Laslow whimpers. “I know, I missed you too.”

“What is this?” Ryouma raises his voice barely above a whimper.

But what on Earth is there for him to be afraid of. There is nothing here but Xander, Laslow and Ryouma.

“Have you so easily forgotten the face of my former lover? And even after you had said so many awful things about him.” Xander offers a false smile. “Or is that you finally recognize how you’ve hurt us? What brought that on? His leg? The sorrow on his face? Truly, I am happy that you have finally realized some amount of guilt for a Nohrian. Although I lament a bit that it isn’t for me.”

“What the Hell?” Ryouma presses himself up against the door as if feeling something strongly. But his eyes are so empty.

Reflective like glass and clear enough that Xander can see his face in them. Yes, for a fleeting moment, Ryouma’s eyes are devoid of red. No resolution, no determination, no anger. There is not even a hint of that indomitable will.

“I don’t want to hear this from you Ryouma! After all, this is all your fault! Yours and your fucking whore!” Xander screams. “You know it too, don’t you? I can tell by the look on your face. But don’t worry, my love. If you beg for absolution, Laslow will grant it. After all, I forgave you a very long time ago.” Before they had ever even heard the other’s name.

Xander forgave the man inside of his dreams. Who smiled brilliantly at him and never had an unkind gesture to make or a cruel word to say. The Ryouma that was always there for him. Who waited for him. Appreciated him. Loved him. Therefore, there is no way that Xander can go on without forgiving this Ryouma either. Although his voice and movements are foreign and the guilt and shame are marked across his face like a death mask (with eyes frozen in place and a grimace that caresses the sides of his face). Although he isn’t the Ryouma that Xander loves.

Why did that one leave? Xander has not seen him in five years so perhaps he did something to offend him. Or perhaps God is telling him that he can not live in that world forever. Regardless, Xander wants to return to it. To the tender Ryouma’s embrace. Oh if he could live inside of a dream...

“Forgive me.” Ryouma is haunted by shadows of which Xander can not see in spite of him trying very hard to. His voice is trapped inside of a hushed tone, a timbre stained in black.

Xander sets Laslow down on his bed and pulls Ryouma into a hug. It is the same relentless embrace of a snake coiling around its prey.

“I know. I forgive you.” Xander smiles.

Ryouma weakly returns the touch in a way that Xander would not not quite call soothing. He loves it anyway. The tightness of Ryouma’s grip, his wonderfully soft skin. It is the same sort of softness that Laslow’s cheeks and stomach used to be. Touching it felt like love, like being enveloped in a blanket as white and as thick as the moon. Pale and pool and endlessly soft. The feeling of something that will never be felt again. Can’t you understand that?

“You can’t keep him this way.” Ryouma’s eyes are heartbreaking with their gentleness (more real than anything else he has ever shown Xander).

They seem so sorrowful.

“Don’t say such terrible things, Ryouma. Yes, he is much quieter than he was before and it’s hard for him to walk on his own but I can carry him anywhere he needs to go. Anyway, he’s gotten quite good at moving on all fours and Peri is always here to help me. So really, there isn’t a need to abandon him. How could I even? After all that he has done for me?” Ryouma’s scent is suffocating.

It breaks something inside Xander (there was something left to break?). A small, half-dead thing trying so hard to hide in the corners of Xander’s mind. For a transient minute, lasting only a second, he sees things are they really are. In the corner of the mirror of the bathroom he sees his failure of himself, Ryouma and a dog. A revelation drying up with his tears.

“Ryouma, I…” The pain falls away with a shake of the head and a smile.

With the pushing of his conscious onto subconscious so nothing but this joy will remain. So there can be nothing more than most optimistically beautiful of worlds. So as to not kill his fantasy.

“He doesn’t even know who you are!” Ryouma shouts.

Xander punches Ryouma, fracturing his nose beneath his fist; dyeing his knuckles and Ryouma’s chin a brilliant red.

“Shut up.” Xander says with something that’s not quite remorse. It might be love. Xander hopes it’s love.

“I’m sorry.” Ryouma stumbles back. His voice is bitter and fake, floating words inside of a sea of endless lies.

Xander grabs Ryouma by the hair and knees him in the stomach with enough force to bring Ryouma to the ground.

“I said I was sorry Xander!” Ryouma gags.

Oh, he mustn’t be ready yes. Yes, he must not be ready to be loved yet. He simply doesn’t have it in himself to love others.

“How many times must I tell you that you are forgiven? How many more moments must we waste running over those insecurities of yours? Or is that your way of apologizing to Laslow as well?”

“Does it matter?”

No, not really. Nothing really matters right now. Xander is filthy with blood and a number of insecurities that weigh heavy on his throat. Ah, what’s he going to do now? About Ryouma? About the filth staining his very soul?

“I need to take a bath. Please stay with me.” That came out more pathetically than Xander had hoped.

Short words in a small voice. Wait a minute, that sounds a little bit like the title of a two-bit novel. Something trashy and disposed of barely four days after it was finished. Xander stumbles into the bathroom and falls into a tub already drawn (Peri is perhaps a godsend), mumbling that to himself. Lamenting all the books that were never written and the Xanders that never were.

Goddamnit, he wanted to be a father.

Ryouma crawls in beside him and curls up, trying to make himself look as small as possible. For a man like him, it works well, giving him the appearance of a child or a young girl. When Xander tried to do that, it only made him seem even more frightening.

“My head hurts.” Xander passes over half a brick of soup. “Is the water warm enough for you?”

It stings the scratches on his hand and smells fouler than usual but Xander gently scrubs at himself regardless. Since there isn’t anything else that he can do about it (the smell, his scratches, Ryouma).

“No.” Ryouma starts to peel the semen off his own chest.

Maybe he can understand that filthy feeling now? Maybe he’s been inflicted with the overbearing urge to peel his skin off and become beautiful and pure and lovable again. Or maybe not. Xander never did really consider the possibility that it was just him, that he was overreacting. Everyone seemed to say that anyway.

Xander turns the tap as far as it will go towards hot and lets the warmth flow over his body. There is a certain purification to it; a melting of drying blood the changing of pure water to a sickly reddish brown colour that makes Xander sigh. He lies back. Eventually, he thinks his skin might he healed. If he takes enough baths.

“What do you want from me now? Just tell me.” Ryouma mumbles.

Oh, but it’s not the same way Xander mumbles. It’s not frightened or nervous or desperately trying to cling to a few semblances of youthfulness. It has an edge to it. A kind of… hateful feeling that’s pushing back against Xander.

“Truthfully, I want your love Ryouma. To be held by you, to have children with you, to grow old with you. I want to live so that neither of us feel loneliness or anxiety or hopelessness ever again. I want to live beautifully, eternally, totally purely with you! But more than that, I want you to understand my feelings. And to that end, I am going to ask Leo to cast a spell on you and on I. One that will bear all of our thoughts and feelings towards one another and if that fails, bear our very souls. Our worst, most painful memories. If you aren’t in love with me after understanding that, you can kill me Ryouma. And I’ll smile.” Xander reopens a scratch on his thigh.

He can’t remember if his father did that or if he was hurting himself again.

“What did he do to you?” Casually.

So impassively it hurts.

“Stop.”

“You want me to start understanding you, right? Then explain it to me. Tell me the one thing that you won’t even let me ask about.”

Xander shoves Ryouma against the back of the bathtub.

“Make love to me, Ryouma.” He begs.

Ryouma stares back at him with that same uncaring gaze.

“No.” Firmly.

Xander purrs and licks across Ryouma’s chest, kissing each and every one of the dark spots the needles left behind. Ryouma’s flesh is never going to scar. Not really. Not like Xander’s scars.

“We can do it however you like. Please.” Xander pleads.

He feels a little disappointed. It would have been so nice if they could mark each other with supple, swollen pink scars. If Ryouma’s thighs could look just like his own one day.

Ryouma snakes an arm around Xander’s waist; their shared warmth surpassing that of even the water surrounding them. They look wonderful together.

Ryouma sighs and snakes an arm around Xander’s waist, holding him gently as if they were lovers. They look so wonderful together, their shared warmth surpassing that of the water surrounding them.

“I pity you.” Ryouma says in a voice as harsh as frostbite.

Ah, there it is again. That sense of apathy, of contempt, of an unguarded series of verbal throwaways.

“I love you.” Xander repeats.

He is going to keep repeating it until Ryouma knows that he means it. Until Xander, too, is absolutely sure of it. At the very least, until it starts to feel familiar in his mouth.

“I know you do.” Ryouma laughs with an undercurrent of something that Xander just can’t understand. “I’m not doing this unless you properly prepare yourself. Go get some lube.”

Xander takes a bottle of Lilin from the bathroom drawer and passes it over to Ryouma.

“Stop using this stuff.” He says (it feels almost like an order).

“But it has soooo many benefits, Ryouma. It performs its functional as lubricant more than adequately and it makes me feel almost as good as the Hammer does. Besides that, it doesn’t dissolve in water alone so isn’t it the most practical choice?” Xander lies back, propping his head against the front of the bath and wrapping his legs around Ryouma’s waist.

It’s quite a deal thicker than his own. The stomach of a man that has never truly known what it feels like to starve. One that hasn’t ever been empty. Xander wonders if Ryouma’s mind is empty. If he has sat in the darkness, lonely and rendered unable to feel love or joy or any created things. He wonders if Ryouma could understand that. But he’s too pure for such things. Too full. His muscles are soft and hard to the touch. A layer of iron that hangs tightly onto just the right amount of fat.

Do you think Ryouma cares how expensive his meals have been? They have to be imported, you know. Is he aware of how hard it is to get other countries to import to Nohr? When they abused half the world just fifty years ago? He has to get someone to bring it all in from Mokushu. All so Ryouma can continue to live ignoring the reality of Nohr. How laughable.

“Now is not a time to be speaking about practicality, Xander.” That phrase is perhaps moreso.

Xander is always practical. Who would he be otherwise? Leo?

“Then hurry up and use me.” Xander rests his ankles on either side of the bathtub to allow Ryouma entry.

And enter he does; forcing two fingers in right away.

“You’re very relaxed.” He says.

Xander is absolutely sure that secretly, Ryouma loves to hurt him. But who doesn’t?Xander’s sole positive trait is that he simply does not have it in him to hate others. That is what makes the perfect victim, right? A soft, pliant, ugly man who thoughtlessly cries out “Someone please come and save me!”, who whimpers (as pathetically as a dog) out ‘no’s and ‘stop’s he doesn’t really mean.

It’s happened again. Xander has been reduced to meat. A senseless lump of flesh for the shining demon that is Ryouma to tear apart. Growing more immature by the hour even though he has gotten so tall since then. And he’s starving again. His mind is twisting and turning with hunger pangs that shake his very stomach, forcing him tight around Ryouma’s fingers. So narrow that he throbs around them.

“Yes well, I’m used goods.” Which is Xander’s way of saying “Eat me however you like.” or “Please don’t leave me.” but he already knows Ryouma is going to miss that.

Or if he does notice the implications, he doesn’t care of them. That too is expected. Since the day that Ryouma and him met on this physical plane, Ryouma has a habit of ignoring things he doesn’t like. Like Xander’s letters.

“I noticed.” Really, he is kind of man that goes on his way defiling everything. Unable to acknowledge anything like repentance or love. Just like his father.

Surely, that is who Ryouma will become if he’s allowed to keep on living this way.

“You wound me.” Xander moans through his teeth.

If the situation is like that, it’s probably for the best that Xander is the only one allowed to love Ryouma like this. Perhaps it is imperative. Beyond everything, demon that he is, Ryouma is the one person left unharmed who cares for Xander and Xander loves him to the point of tears. Surely then their fate is to become monsters together.

“Consider it payback.” Ryouma pulls his fingers out and rubs them down his cock, stepping ever so slightly out of the bath. “Lift your hips.”

He has such a commanding, awe-inspiring voice that Xander can’t do anything else but obey. He thrusts his hips up, submitting beneath Ryouma’s might. They are going to work so well together, aren’t they? The King of the Midnight Sun and his Consort in Shadows.

As Ryouma presses into him, Xander daydreams of that reality. Of a new Master who won’t hit him unless he asks of it; who won’t want anyone but him. God, wouldn’t that just be beautiful?

But the euphoria that comes from dreams is not half as strong as that which comes from sexuality and Xander’s fantasies fade into squeals. He rocks back against Ryouma, digging his fingernails into the bath.

“Please hurt me.” That is not his voice.

That is a desperate and lonely child searching for a replacement for all manner of terrible things. Xander’s begging for new suffering. For all the things he thought he had left behind.

He should have known this was going to happen. Anything he wants to defeat, he can’t. Anyone he tries to be, he won’t. Anyone he needs to love him well, they all secretly loathe him don’t they? His father did and Gunter did (does? If he he isn’t dead yet he should be), Kamui always always always did. But that’s fine. It’s fine. There isn’t anything that can be done about it and he hates them all back regardless. And even if he didn’t, he has Ryouma. So everything is as it should be.

“As you wish.” Ryouma hides a sadistic edge through a veil of resignation. Did he think Xander wouldn’t find it?

He screams orgasmically from inside his throat being pressed down on by Ryouma’s wonderfully scarred hands. The hands created solely for destroying him and everything he fought for. Hands that were born to tear Nohr into shreds and to snatch up everything they had to offer. Xander is drowning in the eroticism in that.

Those hands hold and release Xander’s throat in time to the agonizingly slow thrusts of Ryouma’s cock. It is a waltz of pain and pleasuring that turns Xander’s brain inside out. Visions of a world much like the one they live in pollute his his head, overwhelming his body with desire.

Pleasure swells inside his stomach and beats in time with his heart, forcing Xander tighter and tighter around Ryouma with a ‘desperate’ cough. Pain mounts in his throat and erases something unfamiliar. A memory or a word or an order. From the bottom of his stomach to the convulsions inside his throat, everything that was once Xander’s (his father’s) is becoming Ryouma’s instead.

In the dream born from the pressure inside of Xander’s lungs and the slowing of his blood, all that flashes before his eyes is Ryouma. The rain cries out with his voice and the sand’s faintly pink colour is quite similar to the colour of Ryouma’s lips. Even the expanse of sea that stretches infinitely out beyond where Xander’s eyes can reach is as fakely red as his blood. Soon, Xander’s pain is going to become Ryouma’s too.

Xander bucks with the tightness spreading across his chest and screams so loudly that his throat turns raw.

“I love you.” Xander shrieks through the haze.

Ryouma releases his grip and grabs Xander’s shaft; jerking it roughly.

“I know.” His hands move like their dancing. Using a rhythm determined and understood only by Ryouma.

“It’s too much!” Xander says.

Loosely restrained, Ryouma punches Xander in the stomach.

There is no way that isn’t going to bruise.

“Be quiet and enjoy yourself.” He punches Xander again. Harder. Leaving a bright red mark across his abs.

It’s fair though. Xander did just beat Ryouma. And even if it weren’t fair, they’re in love with each other so they belong to one another. If it’s like that, being punched is romantic.

“My head hurts.” There’s that childish voice again.

It will never leave Xander’s side. He kind of accepts that now.

“I know that too.” Tough skin and scars glide up and down Xander’s erection, seemingly unconcerned by the building heat inside of it.

Xander’s cheeks turn pink. The inside of his mind and the bruise that is blooming on his belly and all manner of sexual feelings are turning pink. He cries out with orgasm, coating Ryouma’s chest in come. It runs down the hollow of his breasts all the way down before settling at the base of the stomach. He drops Xander into the bath with a splash.

The water has become completely tainted with his father’s blood and the dizzying scent of spilt semen. Xander gives a brief smile and dives beneath the water, drinking it in. Did you know that iron and salt are demon repellents? So really, Xander’s skin should be sloughing off by now.

“Disgusting.” Ryouma wipes the white off himself and then Xander. “Please, don’t drink the water we’ve just bathed in.”

“Why not?” Xander pulls up, his hair having turned very slightly red.

“It’s filthy.”

“I am filthy.” Xander tugs the plug out of the bathtub and throws it to the corner.

Blood lingers on his skin, turning the pale white meat as pink as he feels. The bruises darkens a little bit too. Though, Xander can not tell if it’s by virtue of the water or simply the natural progression of things. Either way, he’s getting hard again.

“Are we done now?” Ryouma glosses over it.

“My skin and hair is still a bit red but it seems that you are completely clean so yes, we’re done now. Please return to your cell on your own. Ask for assistance if you find it troublesome. However, if you try to escape, I am going to have Kamui bred, tortured and killed with his body put on display or given away to anyone who might find resurrecting a dragon to be an interesting pastime.” Kamui. Nor Corrin.

There never really was a Corrin, was there? Or if there was, he died when he abandoned his family (who loved him more than they loved each other) being replaced by that ‘Kamui’. Ultimately though, he is just another person who Ryouma loves more than him. Another icon that people place above Xander. Another person who despises him. Even so, Xander can’t really kill him. He can’t even cut up that face or sell him because after all of this, Xander still loves his little brother.

“Walk safely. I don’t doubt some of my men have fallen in love with you.” Xander says. After all, he feel in love with Ryouma at first touch.

He can still feel where Ryouma’s fingers brushed loosely against his cheek.

Ryouma doesn’t respond and doesn’t move. Xander carries him into bed and snuggles tightly against him, burying his face in the mane of hair. Finally, Ryouma is starting to love him.

***

There is noise in his mouth; a violation of and by an unceasing Winter’s rain and the colour of slate that is tearing open holes inside of his mucus membranes. Gray blue blood drips down from his nose, announcing each syllable with a laugh begetting violent love.

“I’m so proud of you.” Laslow’s voice, all warm and white and blue, is painful with its familiarity.

The remembrance brushes over Xander’s throat like a ghost, with spectral hands warm enough to soothe the cold right out of his bones. They caress Xander’s collarbone, leaving bruises everywhere they touch.

“You finally got rid of that chain around your neck.” His nape turns white and gray and all blue. The same colour as the blood slowly leaking out of every available hole.

It is an unreachable, enviable shade of blue. An unnatural pigment so bright and ethereal that it looks like something out of a painting.

“But what are you going to do about the one wrapped around your ankle?” Laslow says.

He is the white noise and the taste of blood bubbling in the back of Xander’s throat. He is the blue that is slowly sinking Xander into a sea of salacious intent.

“I don’t know what you mean.” He replies.

Warmth eats away at the inside of Xander’s stomach and the rotting inside of his brain, tearing away the pink from his feelings and replacing everything with the crushing embrace of his neck. Xander melts with it, smiling obedient despite his crawling skin and the anxious feeling beating in his chest.

“Xander, love, have you really been ignoring it? The shape of Ryouma’s heart?”

“What are you talking about?” Xander seeps in the naivety of it all. As if what Laslow was saying wasn’t obvious!

You know, he has always been pitifully naive. Unable to understand pain or why people wanted to hurt him. Even now, he can’t understand how to avoid sorrow or how to stop other people feeling strongly enough to bring it to him. He can’t even figure out how to make people stop feeling so damn good about hurting him. Yes, in spite of suffering all of that violence and all that love, he is going to go and get abused again. Everyone knows it. I mean, he can’t even comprehend that he’s been abused. The word comes up constantly, like the sound of vomit, but he can not reconcile it with his vision of ‘love’. How does a person like that deserve redemption?

“Don’t look so anxious Xander, I don’t mind explaining it to you.” Laslow is simply too pure for this world. He acts as if Xander’s worthlessness is a small character flaw and treats him as if that were true. “I think that if you take a long inside of Ryouma’s soul, you’re going to find something awful. Something hard, black, cruel. Malicious. And since I don’t want you to get hurt again...”

Laslow has been doing all of this for Xander’s pathetic sake, isn’t that romantic? Isn’t that merciful? Xander doesn’t deserve the slightest bit of affection but here Laslow is, giving it anyway. So Xander absolutely, positively can’t disobey.

“So please, ask Leo to open up Ryouma for you. So you won’t have to cry anymore.”

“I know.” Xander feels nauseous. “I know.”

Empty and unloved. Hungry. His mind starves in the absence of stimulus. And to think, he tried so hard to free himself.

“Pain is food for the brain.” Centipedes scream in Xander’s inner ear.

He’s going to waste away if he doesn’t find a replacement soon.

“But before I go Laslow, perhaps shamefully, I want to feel you treating me roughly again.” Xander brushes a thumb over Laslow’s palm. “Strangle me please. Until you start to feel me fading away from you.”

“You don’t need to beg. After all this, you’re still my beloved Lord.” Laslow’s smile juxtaposes beautifully with the enveloping of Xander’s throat, with the bloating and popping of Xander’s chest as his lungs start to burn up.

Xander missed his hands so much.

Arousal strains against Xander’s boxers, leaking precum mixed with blood. A second pair of Laslow’s lithe hands appear to attend it. They squeezes and scratch at Xander’s shaft until he can do nothing more than moan as the sensation of burning spreads. Laslow constricts his throat with far more force than his hands had ever had before. When they were both whole, Xander could have broken Laslow without even trying but now, he’s stronger than Ryouma.

Xander gulps air back, breathing shallowly so as to savour the feeling of fullness for as long as he may. He flushes blue as orgasm rises inside of him, turning his body weak and lustful and so very very warm. Quietly, wordlessly, with a moan, Xander surrenders. He relinquishes the last piece of himself clinging onto rationality and lets himself be reborn in head spinning pleasure.

It is his baptism in burst lungs and thickly melting fluids. It is a long dream that he has only just awakened from. And for the first time in a very very long time, Xander smiles while sleeping.

  
***

By the time that Xander wakes up, Ryouma is already gone. Only the smell of his sweat on Xander’s skin shows that he was there at all. So, he stayed after all. It’s actually kind of unexpected how much Xander expected that.

He pulls himself out of bed and gets undressed. It must have been at least two days since he’s changed his clothing. Maybe three. Actually, he can’t remember changing his clothes at all this week. He must smell revolting then. Unwashed, rotting a bit, like an an item used and then left in the rain. So it really is no wonder that Ryouma turns his nose up whenever Xander passes him by.

That is also a metaphor.

Xander exchanges his boxers and climbs into leggings that hug his inner thighs so tightly that you can see every movement and muscle. It even leaves a mark in the places where the fat ends and the muscle begins. Will Ryouma appreciate that? Will he say something about the paleness of Xander’s chest? About how many buttons are fastened? Or undone? Would he like it more if Xander wore something tighter or looser? Why is he bothering anyway? It isn’t as if Ryouma is overly concerned with what men wear. Oh but what would Ryouma think if he say Xander in a Yukata? It is a Yukata, right?

He fastens his blouse all the way up to the collar. Ah right, so he wants to look like a stuffy Nohrian noble, doesn’t he? What’s the point of dressing prudish when Ryouma already knows what he really is? No, a loose one is better. One with ruffles that barely obscure Xander’s chest and a flowing material that will make even walking seem like a dance. But that might be a bit too out of character for someone as stern as Xander so he heaps that one onto the floor with the other.

“What do you think, Laslow?” He holds up a third shirt.

Its buttons go all the way to the neckline but someone also had the good sense to put lace on both the sleeves and the neck. Thus, the shirt could plunge to the stomach or be as chaste as an officer’s coat depending on the need.

“I think that’s a good middle ground as you don’t really know his tastes yet. I’d leave a couple of buttons undone anyway. That way, you can give off an air of provocative mystery about you.” Laslow replies.

Xander slides into the silk and fastens all but the top three buttons. If he were to move the wrong way or a little too quickly or laid down, his collarbone (perhaps even the upper portion of chest) would be exposed. That’s lascivious right? The kind of thing that Ryouma would want?

It isn’t like Xander understands anything about men, much less ones the calibre of Ryouma. How could he? Xander was born only able to scream and destroy. A monster with hands designed only to rip flesh apart and a mouth to seduce men before devouring them. How on Earth does he expect to redeem himself then? To redeem Ryouma.

He is going to have to ask Leo about it. About all of it. What to wear, what to do about Ryouma’s heart, what about their father’s corpse and who shall take on the terror that is being King of this country. Really though, it has been some time since Xander has seen his brother. Two months before Ryouma even came here. So that would make it two and a half months. No, three. Three and a half.

There is an indescribable agony exploding inside of Xander’s head. Pressure, compression, the feeling of something suddenly collapsing, rapture. He falls to the ground with a thud and shrieking tearing out from his diaphragm. Xander mutilates himself, writhing, dancing, like an ant beneath a magnifying glass. He scratches open his throat and cheeks with a wild abandon and falls in love with each drop of blood.

“It’s not enough anymore, Xander. People just aren’t enough anymore.” Ryouma’s voice bounces as if inside of an empty room.

The reprise for forgotten fantasies. It echoes inside of Xander’s skull, persisting although he is smashing it against the wall.

The wood grains are faces. Souls with names attached. As Xander stares up at the ceiling, he struggles trying to recall the ones he gave to them. There was a Margaret, wasn’t there? Lover to the grain beside her who, unbeknownst to poor Margaret, was a woman in disguise. He names that one Cecil now. Cecil who was born Luxuria for her parents had no taste in names. There was an Ire too although that was a nickname that stuck to him. Far smarter and classier than his thief companions, he refused to abandon them out of a misplaced sense of honour nonetheless. A Viscount of Superbia brought the total of sins up to three but come to think of it, his face is quite long and sharp. He’s more of a Vaingloria then. But perhaps Gloria is his sister instead. A female Knight much older than he as well and his vassal for she couldn’t bear to part and one day, fight against him.

Xander gazes blankly upwards into the wooden void that is his ceiling for what feels like hours. Yet, when he’s done, he isn’t sure that even thirty minutes had been spent.

He stands on shaking legs and starts walking; trailing up and across staircases until he feels the dim, cold light of the sun on his skin. Bypassing that, he makes his way to the third floor (goodbye sun) and from there, to Leo’s room and laboratory.

As Xander opens the door, Leo turns to face him wearing an expression that Xander does not think either of them understand. Eyes wide open and mouth firmly shut with a kind of hot feeling in the air. It is definitely a mix of things, now that he thinks on it. Fear and anger? Surprise and joy? Both neither? Conclusion: Yes and no and everything that lies heavy and unspoken between the two of them. An uncomfortable silence is pieced together out of things they are unsure that the other saw. Of things that can never be admitted.

“Why are you here?” Leo sets Brynhildr down with a hesitation that is almost cautious.

He must know what Xander’s does. Everyone must already subconscious know. From the lowliest maid to his family to even the people who are justing leaving this Earth, they know and they are all screaming in unison.

“I have come to arrange something between You and I and between Prince Ryouma and Prince Takumi.” Xander replies.

“You’re asking me for a foursome?” Leo laughs.

It’s a harmless, tinkling type of laugh. The kind that sweeps away all concerns into nothingness. Xander laughs back in spite of himself and in spite of the sins he has committed.

Leo knows and he doesn’t care. Is that it?

“Yes and no. Primarily, I am asking you to help me understand Ryouma’s soul and to have mine understood in turn. But if it suits your fancy that the four of us do such a thing, I am more than happy to oblige you.” Xander says.

“If all you wanted was to see inside Ryouma, why did you bring Takumi up at all?” Leo’s eyes meet Xander’s in the sort of way that can say only “We’re made of the same stuff, you and I.” and with the same sort of smile that only those who are sharing a secret give.

“That was not my intention and I apologize if I came across as such. I only wanted to let you know that we could have a foursome if you wished. Besides, I thought it might please you to see Lord Takumi look upon his brother with a hopeless expression. It would also be a good bargaining tool for both you and I. ‘Obey us or we’ll break your minds again.’.” What else can Xander say? He doesn’t want his claws, his teeth, his soul-depth taint to be exposed.

More than that, he doesn’t want the corruption that was born inside of his insecurities and sexual misconduct to spread to his brother. Leo keeps smiling regardless so it’s probably much too late for that.

“Come here.” Leo demands (with a body that reeks of desperation).

Xander comes. He kneels before his brother with an expression sterner and harsher than anything he feels has crossed his face before. God, he must look fourty, fourty-five years old right now.

Leo grinds the heel of his boot against Xander’s crotch and shamefully, an erection rises up to greet it.

“Is Ryouma not enough for you anymore?” Xander winces. “Is my poor, depraved big brother just too sick for him?”

“Leo, stop, I--” Leo kicks him across the face.

Hard enough to leave to a bright pink mark across Xander’s cheeks. Who taught Leo how to do that? To kick someone and make it look like a cane did it instead? Xander wishes he had done it himself.

“I’m not a little boy anymore Xander. I know exactly what you get up to. I know how your army ‘friends’ treated you. I know how Father did. And more than that, I know that Ryouma just isn’t the same.” Leo coos in a tone that’s more mocking than it isn’t. “Have you two fucked yet? Or is he still jerking you around like he did back when we were playing nice?”

“Leo.” Colder than before. A little bit more than a warning.

“Oh but you love him, right? Don’t answer. I can already see it scratched across your face, written in blood. Ah well, I’ll show you a good time anyway. Consider it payment for the huge favour that I am about to do you.’ Xander does not and will not remind him of his promise of a foursome.

But perhaps that is because he really did want it.

Leo grabs his own tights by the crotch and yanks them away.

“You’ll stretch them out.” Xander says like he’ll actually try to stop his brother.

Leo slides them halfway down his legs before giving another small smile. Such a slight curling of the lips that it barely looks like a smile at all.

“Let’s take this to my room, alright? I want to try something.” His face breaks into a wild grin. “Carry me.”

Xander picks Leo up, barely resisting the almost overpowering urge to run his fingers across the malleable skin of his brother’s stomach. Morso, resisting the desire to but bruises on it. Can you imagine how beautiful they would look against that porcelain skin? On Leo’s unscarred flesh?

“What do you intend to do with me?” Xander asks.

“Ravish you, of course.” A laugh (he never knew his brother could act so proud). “But really, I want you to eat me out.”

“Leo, I’m not sure that--”

“Come now. We both know you want it.” He draws out the last word.

It feels more shameful than it should.

Xander sets Leo down on the bed and climbs on beside him. With slow and careful movements, Xander discards his own shirt and leggings.

“What are you doing?” Leo’s graceful, bonelike fingers caress Xander’s chest and collarbone.

They trail from his breasts to each individual rib, pinching all the flesh they encounter. Sharply, Leo pushes Xander down.

“Are you going to… sit on me?” Xander only flinches a little.

“You’re surprisingly obedient for a man in your position.” Oh. So Leo doesn’t understand his heart either.

What was Xander expecting? Sympathy? Pity? If he keeps clinging onto his victim mentality, he will never be able to find happiness you know. His father said that once. Or Ryouma did. Sometimes, all of Xander’s memories just blur together in one colourful slop. He wonders if anyone could understand that either.

Leo shifts up to sit on his chest.

“Too good to say anything? Well, I suppose it doesn’t matter, does it? Since your mouth is better suited to other pastimes.” He slaps Xander across the face, giving him a matching mark on the other side of his face.

A handprint not even as big as his cheek.

“I’m sorry.” And there goes that complex again.

“While I appreciate the apology, I’d still like it better if you would stop bothering with words.” He pins Xander back and offers his crotch.

“Your boxers, Leo.” Xander sighs.

Giving off another enigmatic smiles, Leo slips out of them and leaves them lying on Xander’s groin.

“See how wet I am.” Leo spreads himself open.

A tragically familiar smell curls up against and into Xander’s nose as he fights the urge to recoil.

“I can’t reach you like this.” He is barely hiding it. The arousal disgust.

Leo sits down on Xander’s face.

“If you start to suffocate, tap my thigh. I might consider letting you up.” He says.

The smell only gets more powerful; strengthened by the heat of the situation and with the taste that Xander doesn’t think he will ever get out of his mouth. Dutifully, he starts licking. Running his tongue over the opening and his hands down Leo’s thighs. They’re still as soft as last they met.

“Do you know how long it takes to make a mind affecting spell, big brother? Most Sorcerers can’t even do it. Brynhildr’s going to get all stressed out at the work you’re having her do so it’s going to take a few days. And probably a raid to the treasury if not the University of Magic itself. So, you better make it up to us. Make me come.” Leo bounces against Xander for emphasis.

Better comprehending his situation, Xander brushes his tongue against Leo’s clit. Perhaps, with something called defiance, he toys with it. A gentle stroke once or twice every minute or so before going back to sucking at the folds.

“I should have anticipated your failure in this.”

Xander bites down. Not hard enough to make anything bleed or tear (although God knows he could if he wanted to) but enough to make Leo scream and start furiously rubbing his groin.

“Start again!” As if Xander had any intentions of stopping.

Leo sits back atop Xander without even trying to support himself this time. Xander licks up and down the inner labia and sucks on the outer ones until Leo begins to moan again. Squirming, he rocks against Xander’s mouth.

“Harder.”

Xander takes it all inside his mouth and grinds his teeth against the flesh. It’s not quite a bite but he doubts it’s pleasant either. Leo cries out anyway. He screams a foreign name; not Takumi’s and not his own. Xander squeezes a thigh and leaves a red imprint of his hand against the flesh. He’s unsure of whether it was done out of envy or out of that same unusual lust for contrast. Leo doesn’t complain anyway. He’s probably already become addicted to pain.

“Coming up for air already?” Leo chirps.

Xander moves back to his clit and sucks on it until brother starts to scream and struggle. Then he stops. This becomes something of a ritual. Alternativing between rough and long sucks with as much suction as his mouth can manage and then slowly licking up and down around it. The smell is only getting worse. Or better. The taste is definitely getting better. At least, becoming something that Xander almost doesn’t mind..

Leo leans forward on Xander’s face and bumps against it. Once, twice, three times and onwards. Xander takes his legs and holds them steady, smacking them hard enough to turn them a dark red. His thighs are going to look so blue by the time they’re finished. No, purple. Purple comes before blue.

“Xander.” He whines. “Stop teasing me, you pig.”

Leo’s terminology no longer seems endearing. The tone is all wrong. It is a veneer of love hiding layer upon layer of contempt. He’s doing this to humiliate him. Ah. So his brother is a little bit like Ryouma then.

He takes Leo back inside of his mouth and gives an honest bite this time. More of a nibble, really. From above him, his brother arches his back and squeals again pushing even harder against Xander. He keeps going. A steady consistent process of licking, sucking and biting. Licking inside of the opening and all the way to Leo’s hood, sucking there, biting there. And as Leo orgasms, he punches into his brother’s thigh with all of the anger he has repressed for fourteen years.

Leo gets up and Xander tries to stand only to be pushed back down.

“I didn’t say we were done yet. Again, this spell normally takes six months.” Leo smiles again. It’s so gentle. “Get on the ground.”

What does Xander think he is? A dog? A pig? He’s following Leo’s orders as if his life depends on them despite his own miraculous strength and determination Despite possessing the blade that swallows sunlight!

There it is again! That mentality. That childish way of thinking about things. That anger. That hatred. That resignation and that sorrow and the hunger that is tearing at his gray matter. And although they’re all screaming at him, he kneels.

“Take off your boxers.”

Xander slides them off. He is leaking already, staining Leo’s deep purple carpet with precum.

“You got that hard from just eating me out? And you say you don’t love me.” Leo laughs.

He places a bare foot against Xander’s erection.

“I’m sorry.” Xander whimpers.

“Stop acting so sorry for yourself Xander. I don’t care.” How does he keeps his feet so smooth? How does he keep any of himself smooth? “Beg me to jack you of.”

“Little brother, would you please masturbate me?” Xander closes his eyes and tries to dream.

But his attempts are completely worthless and he stays inside of his body. So he really did want this after all.

“That isn’t begging. It sounds more like you are asking a favour of Father. Oh, is this the kind of thing you whined at him for when he died? Are you going to kill me too now?”

“Ryouma killed him.” It isn’t quite a lie.

Ryouma kept telling him to, after all. Though he knew how frail Xander’s emotional state was at the time.

“I see. Clearly, you don’t know how to beg actually. Or maybe… How about this. Do it dirty, Xander. Do it like how you’d do it for Ryouma”

“Please use me Master! I’m so hard it hurts!” Xander whimpers.

“Good boy.” Leo sandwiches Xander’s cock between his feet and kindly starts moving.

A slow and surprisingly loving up and down motion that uses Xander’s own fluids as lubricant.

“I always knew you were into feet. Since you always stare at Corrin so absentmindedly.” Leo presses his toes against the head, opening and closing them as slowly as possible.

“Kamui.” Xander groans.

“Oh? Has he finally disowned you? Good for him. If you weren’t such a good boy, I’d have done it too. Why would I want a filthy pervert as a big brother?” He presses his other foot down on Xander’s testicles.

Actually, he’s stepping on them.

“It feels good!” Xander laughs.

He’s losing his mind.

“Of course it does! Father liked this kind of shit too!”

Xander wants to ask “Is this what it’s about?” but more than that, he wants to die it. He knows it’s true though. Everyone secretly does. Blood turns into blood and so, from the very moment that he was born, Xander was destined to follow the same path his parents did.

He sees it again in the haze of orgasm. A body thumping over a doorstop. Its neck is bent so far that it looks like a doll and its legs look as if they were twisted in the sockets. Xander sees it again; blonde and fair, dark and tan. That is what awaits him, his fate, his destiny. The reason that he was born. There really is no point in fighting it.

“I won’t let you come unless you beg to me.” Leo tears up. Ultimately, his crying face is more lovely than Kamui’s.

Oh.

“I’m begging you Leo! Let me come!” Xander isn’t sure if he is desperate or he is just playing along. Is there really a difference between the two?

“That’s not good enough Xander! Apologize to me! Say that you’re sorry for being so terrible! For being this way!”

“I’m sorry I’m so disgusting! For lusting after you and Kamui and Ryouma!” Secretly, he has always wanted to say this and to be forgiven in turn.

It’s fine even if his father can’t anymore.

“Apologize for those men!”

“And what about those men Xander! Who used you and threw you away when they were bored!"

“I’m sorry for letting them ruin me!” Heat builds up.

Leo slaps Xander across the face. He comes anyway.

For five minutes, ten, he and and Leo stare at one another. The silence between them is heavier than it was when they began. Questions like “Did you mean it?” and “Why?” hide between them and the spaces of their silence and neither of them can ask the other. Even if they did, they known full well the other brother wouldn’t answer.

“It felt good.” Leo says and perhaps that is all that matters.

It’s all that matters to Camilla and all that mattered to their father and considering what’s happened to Kamui, it’s all that matters to him too. Why must they be the only ones trying for morality?

“It did.”

Xander stands and kisses him. The way he has always wanted to kiss Kamui.

“Clean that up and get dressed. We have work to do.” Leo’s voice is delicate enough to shatter.

“Forgive me.” Xander replies.

Leo is already gone.

***

The ritual of opening Takumi’s cage door is somehow more frustrating than Ryouma’s. It is less of a sequence and more of a guesswork. A puzzle. Not quite what Xander would call an enigma but anyone else would be forgiven for thinking it was. In actuality, it is a summary of Leo’s personality. A display of his most base traits; the need to feel smarter than everyone else, a strong masculine ego. Easily manipulatable traits that Xander envies nonetheless. Takumi probably hasn’t even noticed that yet.

“Let me do that.” Leo taps the lock and it comes undone in the palm of his hand.

That is a more accurate description of Leo’s hidden self. Watching with a silent smugness as everyone struggles, knowing the simple solution all along. Xander loves him for that. For being more practical and reasonable than himself.

“Are you sure you want to do this with me? I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable Leo.” Xander asks.

He would have still asked even if he and Leo didn’t just have a ‘fight’. Honestly.

“You’re getting a bit emotional on me and I don’t appreciate it.” Leo replies.

It might be a joke. It might not be.

“Anyway, I said I wanted to do it so I will. I always did want to see what was in Ryouma’s head. Takumi is still just a child and so he’s ended up surprisingly predictable. Although, maybe that’s just because I can understand his feelings.”

The door caves in on itself like a piece of sheet metal being smashed by a warhammer, falling to the ground around Leo’s feet.

“Showing off, are we?” Xander says.

Of course he is. Leo was born of vaingloria; of pride and roses. He is a lovely, unreachable creature that takes a disordinate about of pleasure in it. Xander loves that even more than his responsibility.

“You haven’t seen anything yet.” Leo smirks. “Takumi. Say hello.”

Something shifts from beneath a filthy blanket (Xander is sure that it was white when he bought it for Leo; at least, it wasn’t pink and it certainly wasn’t brown). A lump of bruised and rotten meat throws itself at the bars with a scream, barely resembling the haughty Prince it was cut from. Matted hair, tangled up with dried blood and semen, hangs around his shoulders. A trickle of barely liquid blood creeps a trail down from his nose all the way to his mouth. It looks almost black in the light. Like melted licorice. If Xander licked it off do you think it would taste like licorice too? Sweet and bitter?

Takumi takes a faltering step towards Xander and leans up against the bars. Lines like scars or perhaps exhaustion give him a grim expression. They age him far beyond his years. His legs are bloodied all the way down, barely strong enough to support the still amazingly thick muscles of his arms. A brand adorns his chest with the mark of the rose. In total, Takumi’s appearance is lovely enough to nearly make up for the acidic piss scent that permeates every part of the boy.

“What do you want from me?” His voice is weak and feeble. Impossibly tired.

There is a chill to it; a hint of despair that lovingly wraps around Xander’s bones. How he longs to hear that same note of misery in Ryouma’s voice. To render him helpless.

“I have come only to bring you to your brother Prince Takumi. Surely, you’re worried about him.” Xander replies. It isn’t quite a lie.

“I already know this a trap.” He must be dehydrated.

His raspy tone and blood moving like and looking like molasses point only to that. Drowning in the absence of liquid.

“Would you like something to drink?” Xander asks. Because he has some measure of pity inside of him.

More pity than Leo does. Leo has never wanted to sacrifice anything for anyone so why does he feel so surprised?

“The last time I answered yes to that question, your brother pissed in my mouth.” Takumi smiles.

“And you drank it all up so.” Leo shrugs.

Xander takes the flask from his hip and offers it to Takumi through the bars. Beer drips from the opening and down the boy’s exposed chest; rolling all the way to his hips before finally slowing and drying in the cool air.

“I’m not getting drunk.” How spoilt for a hungered, thirsting POW.

Xander idly wonders how his mind must feel. How starved that is. Perhaps that’s why he is acting out so, because he longs for punishment.

“There is only about a tablespoon of beer in here. We mix it with water to make it safe to drink. I promise, you won’t get drunk off of it.” He has decided to give this boy some stimulation.

Something to take the pain away. There is a stark difference between being drunk and being high, isn’t there? At least, in the amount of joy generated. Xander wonders what kind of expressions Takumi is going to show.

“You’re way too nice, Xander.” Leo laughs as if they have a silent understanding.

Xander passes the flask and watches as Takumi sips from it. His features are so gentle in comparison to Ryouma’s (Xander almost wants to keep them both as his beloved pets). Pale, wrinkled lips and wide bright eyes that look hauntingly like Kamui’s. But they have more of a deepness about them. The same vague cruelty of a cat’s . Xander can not help but get lost inside of the sea of yellow brown. Ah, so this must be how Takumi has such good aim. His supernatural vision.

Takumi’s body is delicate as well. He arms are bulked up and abused to the point where they hold more muscle than his lithe frame should rightly have and his chest matches. Only his fingers linger as the reminder to how girlish the boy really is. They stroke against the bottle with a harp player’s spidering embrace.

“Actually, it was kind of sweet.” Takumi says.

If only his voice were half as graceful. The brattish, entitled whine makes Xander want to tear his tongue out. For a man with such elven features only the voice of a maiden will suffice. If he can’t have that, he might as well not speak.

“Nohrian beers often are.” Xander replies. “Now, will you come and see your brother?”

“I never said I wasn’t going to. Only that it sounded like a trap. It probably still is but… I don’t want him to think that I’ve abandoned him.” He says it with a certain expression.

Leo makes it habitually. “I don’t want to be alone.” it screams, “Don’t leave me.”. He wants to tell them both that he knows what they mean and feels the same way. Even more than that, he wants to take them to Paradise so that the wounds on their bodies and hearts might finally heal.

That simply isn’t realistic for someone like him to do.

Leo lets the bars falls down around him and takes Takumi’s hand.

“How are you feeling?” He asks with just a little bit of pride.

Xander barely resists laughing although he doesn’t find any of this funny in the least.

“Tired, hungry and thirsty.” Takumi hisses.

“Fair enough.” Leo leads him out and down the staircase.

It’s like watching a shepherd herd sheep. Well, pulling a human into temptation is like herding, is it not? Look, Takumi’s hair is even white! So perhaps, more accurately, it’s like watching someone lead a lamb to the slaughter.

Turn the key to the left (or is it right?), jiggle the handle and push it open with all of your might. This is Xander’s mantra. A ward to stave off the sudden burst of anxiety. Indeed, he’s terribly afraid. He doesn’t know what to do if Ryouma rejects him. If he throws him away. If he loves someone more than he does Xander. If Ryouma hates him. Will Ryouma start to hate Xander after he does this? Turn the key to the right (or was it left?), jiggle the handle and push it with half your strength.

The door swings inwards.

It’s creaking and Xander’s thoughts are disturbed by a pained moan. Unfortunately, it is Jakob instead of Ryouma that’s lying face first on the ground. He’s fully clothed at least, with a tourniquet wrapped so tightly around his arm that his right bicep has turned a shocking red above it.

“Did I not tell you to be out before I came?” Xander resists the urge to kick him in his side.

But only barely. Although the jealousy has long since past there is something about his yet still impudent face that fills Xander with apathy falling just short of hatred. No, it’s a little more than apathy. Dislike, contempt. Or something that is sort of like that but burning colder than it. Still, there is a layer of joy over it remaining. Jakob isn’t one of those damn marionettes but he isn’t any competition either. Thereby, he is the only man around here that Xander would dare consider a friend. Even if it is like this.

“Foremost, you told me no such thing and after that; how did you expect me to leave on my own? The door’s locked both ways, Xander. You’re slipping.” Jakob laughs.

He is more right than he knows and that only makes it worse.

“Jakob, you are dismissed. Go and be with Kamui instead.” He steps over him, scanning the room for any sign of Ryouma but finding only his discarded Yukata.

He must be bathing again. How vain. Oh but it’s like he’s getting ready for their date.

“Kamui?” Jakob asks but he is gone before Xander answers.

It’s likely for the best. Xander doesn’t think he could explain it to him anyway.

Ryouma steps out from the bathroom as soon as the door clicks shut. His expression fades quickly from shock to one of almost completely neutrality. Cold burning anger mixes with the distaste that Xander wishes he could show.

“Takumi.” Ryouma yanks his brother from Leo’s side. “Why are you here? Xander, why is he here?”

“That isn’t any of your business.” Leo interrupts.

Is it an interruption if Xander didn’t have an answer?

“I didn’t ask you.” Ryouma holds Takumi against his breast not unlike a mother would hold her son. “What did they do to you?”

Likely, Ryouma represented a parental figure to his simples. A surrogate father for the unfortunate children who didn’t have nearly enough love from their real one. That is yet another another similarity between the two of them. Clearly, Ryouma would be a wonderful father for Xander’s children.

“It’s not important right now. I just want to see you…” Takumi’s voice trails off with hitching breaths.

It is five minutes too early for him to feeling the effect of the drug so profoundly but the Mages did say that Hoshidans can not handle their pleasure.

“You drugged him.” Ryouma says so nonchalantly. It’s unexpected how much he must have expected that.

“I had only wanted to help him, Ryouma.” Xander replies.

“And you let him?” He looks towards Leo who only shrugs.

“You seem to misunderstand my character, Ryouma. If anything, you should be asking Xander to stop me.” Leo smiles.

Takumi drags himself to the bed and starts rubbing his thighs together. He presses them so tightly against one another that Xander can see the outline of his bulge. So that Xander can smell the delicious seduction of it. It must have been some time since Leo washed him last and Xander only seems to get more excited because of it.

“It hurts.” Takumi whimpers.

He has already begun to leak precum, staining the front of his leggings.

Leo fumbles with his pockets, turning one inside out and the other rightside in, and reveals a small ring. Golden with a few engravings that Xander can not make out.

“Takumi.” It’s an order rather than a statement.

Takumi falls to the ground and prostrates himself before Leo. Grimacing, he exposes a semi-hard cock.

“I hate you.” His voice is resigned but not empty. Helpless but not hopeless. Xander admires that spirit almost as much as he does Ryouma’s. He’s in love with it. He aspires to inflict it upon Ryouma, of whom has never really known defeat.

Leo slips the worn ring onto Takumi’s shaft and gives it a few pumps. As if it were never even there, the exhaustion, the hatred, melts off his face. Slopping onto the floor like fat.

“Please make me feel good Leo!” Takumi pants like a dog.

Xander can’t explain it but it makes him feel a little bit better about himself.

“What the fuck is this?” Ryouma snarls.

Xander shivers and unconsciously take a step back. It’s too much.

“I’ve already retrained Takumi. Rewired his personality to perfectly suit my needs. Now his shitty little morals and worthless pride won’t get in the way of our fun. Isn’t that exciting?” Leo smirks.

He must hate Ryouma to a degree beyond even what would be expected of the man that took their Father.

“It’s fine big brother! I feel so much prettier now!” Takumi rubs his crotch.

The stain on his tights gets yet larger, looking almost as if he wet himself.

“What do you want from me? Why are you doing this?” Ryouma pushes Takumi away.

“Have we not already covered this?” Xander takes out his leather case and unzips it with only one hand. The motions are so fluid they blend together. “I don’t want to be in pain anymore and Leo is the only one who can help right now. As a result, I owe him a favour. This would be that favour.”

Inside lie three syringes; strapped up and wrapped so tightly together that they probably wouldn’t break even if Xander threw the case.

“Your arm please.”

Ryouma offers it up with less resistance than he acts like he has. Xander buries the needle in the crook of his elbow, between the five blackened dots scattered purposelessly around it. The purple and blue bruises are radiant in their decay. Here, he injects the first dose. The second, just under that and the third...

“Open your mouth.”

The third goes in his tongue. This is one of Xander’s favourite spots to receive it. It makes even kissing feel akin to oral sex.

“It’s too much!” Ryouma screams and claws at his arm so that his blood slips out red like ribbons.

“Please, stop trying to hurt yourself. You’ll only end up making a mess.” Xander grabs him and forces him onto his stomach.

With his free hand, he starts to slide Ryouma out of his pants. They are loose enough that Xander can fit his entire hand in with ease. How thoughtful of him.

“Here, let me do that.” Leo pushes past. “I want to see what Ryouma feels like and I want you to know what you’re missing.”

Xander sits down, pulling Takumi down onto his lap.

“Lord Xander.” Like a cat in heat, the boy starts rubbing himself off with an obnoxious whine.

His miserable voice reminds Xander of Leo a bit. A fresher, kinder Leo. The boy who disappeared like mist five years ago. For some reason, Xander feels himself wanting to cry.

“Tell me what you want me to do to you.” Xander replies.

If he ignores it, if he completely disregards anything that reminds him of those thoughts, he can’t feel any pain. Thus, he pushes harder against Takumi until he starts growing erect himself.

“Ruin me. Kiss me. Beat me until I bleed. I want to fall in love with you, too.” He whispers.

Silly child, there is only room in Xander’s heart for one lover at a time. If he feel in love with Takumi then there won’t be any room for Ryouma anymore.

Xander presses his lips against Takumi’s and nearly immediately regrets it. It feels vaguely like amour. Certainly like dishonesty. Ryouma must think that he is being abandoned. But there is something deeper than guilt inside of Xander, beneath a thin layer of tar, that believes that this is only fair.

Ryouma is sneering at Xander. He can feel it on his skin more than ever before.

Xander glances over at him with a poor fusion of curiosity and schadenfreude. Leo smiles back instead.

“Jealous already?” He mouths.

His delicate fingers weave into Ryouma’s pubic hair as his other hand strokes at the bottom of Ryouma’s shaft with a slowness indicating only boredom. Xander hates it anyway.

He swivels towards the bed and takes Takumi with him so that Ryouma can’t look away and kisses him again. A passionate embrace of their mouths, a melding so deep that Xander can taste the beer in the back of Takumi’s mouth. It is sweeter than usual. Now, he is going to have to start buying a new brand. Since sugary things are bad for the soul. They lead children to lie and steal and fornicate with adults. So, if you eat a lot of sugar and an older man tries to sleep with you, it really is your own fault. That’s what one of this mothers told him once. A long time ago.

Xander breaks the kiss with a smile.

“You really are beautiful you know.” And Takumi smiles back.

With a light crunch, only about as loud as leaves being stepped on, his nose breaks and a stream of lively blood drips down onto the carpet.

“Now you and your big brother match.” Xander says.

Takumi rises a shaking palm to meet his blood, looking far more shocked than he ought to. Doesn’t he remember that he asked for this? Literally?

“I…” Takumi stutters.

Xander presses two fingers against his throat and pushes in. Just a little. And then just a little bit more and a little bit more until Takumi gasps, reaching out for the air that’s just beyond his grasp. As if he were a child, he tugs on Xander’s wrist. What? Did he think he was going to break it?

“Is it too much for you?” Xander doesn’t care as much as he is pretending he does, as much as he wants to. This isn’t about Takumi.

“I can’t breathe.” Takumi replies.

Xander sighs and takes his cock in a hand.

“You are far less masochistic than your brother. Although I am somewhat disappointed, it says more about your character than your words do, Prince Takumi.” He strokes against Takumi’s slit, peeling back the foreskin with two fingers. “I appreciate that kind of purity.”

Takumi squeaks and writhes in his lap. He is perhaps more desperate than Leo (or Ryouma for that matter) has ever been. But the tiny, needy voice is the same. Xander wants to cry for the glamour of it. Really though, he isn’t crying for Takumi’s sake. Although the boy likely wishes he was.

Xander steals another glance at Ryouma. Leo has already begun to prepare him, squishing a slightly green gel about in his hands. He smiles at Xander, staring him in the eye with a frightening disregard, as he rubs it down Ryouma’s shaft.

“Did you make that yourself?” Xander runs a finger teasingly over the head of Takumi’s cock.

He strokes up and down a throbbing vein and down to the base where he lets his hand rest.

“Odin helped.” Leo jerks Ryouma off with hasty, sharp movements that glide nonetheless. “Do you want some?”

“Yes please.”

Leo throws the bottle at Xander in spite of the nature of glass. Possibly because of it. Xander catches it effortlessly regardless. However, due to gel already slicking the entirety of the bottle, he struggles to remove the cap. His fingers - wet with precum and lubricant - merely slip around it and the cap seems to resist any effort being made by his dry hand. Eventually, he just takes the cap and pulls it off with his teeth.

“This product is safe to ingest, right?” Xander asks.

“I wouldn’t have made it sweet otherwise.” Leo sucks on his fingers to demonstrate and Xander’s arousal turns palpable.

Takumi writhes again and Xander resigns to stop teasing him. He coats his hands with gel and strokes down Takumi’s aching erection with a long, uniform beat that contrasts so greatly with the way that Leo toys with Ryouma that Xander can’t help but chuckle a bit.

“I want to ride Ryouma. Can I?” Leo asks.

Almost like he is responding to his name, Ryouma bucks up into Leo’s fingers. He looks like a stallion in rut. A beast desperately searching for a way to relieve its carnal urges. It is as if Ryouma has suddenly, abruptly, lost everything that makes him human.

“Why are they the only ones who strive for morality?” His rational thought bursts with an unforgettable sound.

And more than that, why does it matter? It isn’t as if Xander has a place in contemporary society or their family or in Heaven. Really, in society at all. He was born disturbed, infected. It no longer matters what he does with his cursed existence for it is already much, much too late. And it has been too late for twenty nine years.

But there is freedom in this! Independence! The delivery for the sovereignty of virtue that has ensnared them all. For once, Xander feels as if he might do as he pleases and it is maddening.

“But Leo, I want to feel you too.” Xander purrs.

Leo smiles or sneers or does something like neither and both at the same time. Whatever it is, Xander can’t understand. That is also a liberation.

“You first and then I’ll do him. And after all that, I’ll do your spell for you, alright?” That is certainly a smile this time.

But it doesn’t matter in the least.

“Thank you.” Xander gives one more powerful stroke across Takumi’s member before letting him fall to the floor. “What do I do with the ring?”

“Let me.” Leo leaves Ryouma desperately humping the bed as he tends to Takumi’s needs instead.

Xander goes and puts Ryouma over his knee as if he were spanking an unruly child.

“You almost look cute like this.” With vacant eyes and a slack expression.

Xander slicks the gel over his middle and forefingers and starts working the first inside of Ryouma.

“It hurts, bastard!” Ryouma hisses and tightens, throbbing, around Xander’s hand.

That’s funny. He makes it sound as if he didn’t force his way inside of Xander earlier. Or perhaps he thinks that Xander is such a whore that he can handle insertions that Ryouma himself finds painful?

“You ought to be used to this already, Ryouma.” Xander forces the other one in, starting to fuck Ryouma with his fingertips.

Perhaps ‘fuck’ isn’t quite the right word. Xander’s movements are too deliberate for that. He pushes inside and drags out instead, curling his finger against Ryouma’s insides. Carefully, shamefully, he starts to crack open Ryouma’s composure. Like this, the two of them start to expose each other. Xander flashes a glint of sadistic desire and Ryouma stops pulling away from him. No, he does one better than that. He moves with Xander, drooling onto the sheets like a dog.

“Our bodies were made for each other.” Xander whispers.

He forces his ring finger in and spreads them open. Wide enough to see inside Ryouma.

“It’s quite tight even so Ryouma. You must have been popular with the men of your hometown.”

Leo plays with Takumi right in front of them, taunting Ryouma. He scratches and bites at everything his hands and mouth can get within reach of and disregards everything else. In that haze, Takumi’s ring has been lost. Replacing it is a necklace twice as worn but far heavier than anything that Xander has seen before. It has a foreign tone; caressing Takumi’s throat all the way down to his shoulders in a way perhaps more reminiscent of a collar.

“Are you done yet?” Leo asks. “Takumi’s started to slobber on me.”

“Xander, are you done yet?” Leo whines. “Takumi’s started to slobber on me.”

Xander slides his remaining finger in to the hilt and scissors again. Ryouma simply moans.

“I believe I am. The Hammer has started to work quite nicely.” Xander licks his fingers clean as he stands.

Oh, it is sweet. Not quite as sugared as the beer in Ryouma’s little brother’s throat but more than anything else that Xander has had in awhile. Leo should sell this.

“Don’t leave me like this.” Ryouma groans.

Completely ignoring him, Xander offers a hand to Takumi in a way that is so familiar it makes him want to vomit.

“I want to cherish and nurture that dream; tend to it so it may grow even in the ground that we have soaked with blood and hatred. But I can not do it alone, Tyger. I am weak and afraid. Please, help me.” Xander shouts at himself from the shadows of the room, mocking his present and future and the past that he loved so dearly.

“May I?” Xander can not tell if his question is for Ryouma’s detriment, the sake of displacing that voice or Takumi’s virtue.

Hesitantly, Takumi places his hand atop Xander’s and - even more reluctantly - allows him to kiss it for fifteen agonizingly long seconds. In Xander’s mind, Ryouma’s face is twitching and falling as he does it.

“Please, be gentle.” Takumi pleads.

No.

Xander sets him gently against Ryouma and the shouting suddenly stops. Everything stops actually. Everything but the sound of Ryouma’s heartbeat. Yes, that is how disgraceful this act is. This is how much Xander doesn’t want to be forgiven. This is how much Xander has been lost. But it is his sovereignty! He can do as he desires.

“Do you want pleasure, Ryouma?” Xander purrs (he didn’t know he could make such a sound).

He brushes against the nape of Takumi’s neck and only grows harder at the sight of the resulting shudder.

“You did this to me.” Ryouma growls in frustration.

He really has turned into a dog now. Xander would like to keep him as one almost as much as he would like to be kept as one. Perhaps when they get married, they can take turns being the pet. Xander will be the way he has always been; loyal to the point of insanity and willing to be punished for anything Ryouma finds irritating. Or just because he felt like it that day. And Ryouma will kick and scream and bite back metaphorically and literally. They’ll enjoy each other like that. They will reestablish their bonds like that. And neither of them will ever doubt the other again.

Xander is doubting Ryouma anyway. He is afraid of seeing into Ryouma’s heart and finding it frightening. At least Ryouma probably doubts him too. He probably still thinks this is revenge or that it’s all about sex after all (although it was their first time together just this morning.). Or maybe he just hates him.

“I did. But now I am giving you a way to fix it.” Xander says. “Mount him.”

“Fuck you.” Ryouma replies.

Something is dying in his eyes. Something red and angry is swept away by the sea. Xander hopes to hope it is something cruel or insecure but he knows from experience that it won’t be.

“I’m sorry.” Ryouma shifts and pushes Takumi against his back with both hands.

Trying to hide his expression, one of unbridled desire, he sits down on his brother’s dick with a squeal of pleasure. Takumi moans, his nails digging into the comforter. He’s moving with Ryouma. He’s screaming when Ryouma does, shaking his body to a rhythm Xander is envious of. It is beautiful anyway. Like the dance of a snake or a bird’s mating call. A harmony that Xander can’t quite obtain.

Leo rubs down Xander’s spine, pressing his weight against him. Oh, he’s gotten thinner since last they met. Why has he only just realized that?

“They look gorgeous like that.” Leo sighs.

“I know.” Xander replies. A little more unsure.

Leo smiles and, with a showy design, starts to finger himself with a little wail. It’s a distinctive sound that keen. Always louder than Xander expects. He hears is louder than anything else in the room barring only Takumi screaming in front of them. Certainly, it is stronger than his own thoughts. Most likely, it’s because he has an ingrained reaction to the sound. Leo makes it each and every time he wants to pleasure himself.

Xander masturbates himself, thrusting into his hand at the same time Takumi does into Ryouma. Their movements are painfully fast and twice as rough as that but he feels regardless. Because it’s Ryouma.

“Do you want a hand with that?” Leo smirks a little smugly.

Xander nods, letting his brother straddle him. He feels cold and hot at the same time. His stomach and groin feel hotter than the stars but his hands and thighs are frozen. It’s too much. It’s all too much.

“If you were to take me like the Luxurious Sonnet, we could watch these two go at it and make love at the same time.” Xander says this instead of what he really meant.

But he forgot what it was.

Leo turns his back to him and slides down onto his cock with a fluid motion. Xander sighs with relief, raising his hips to meet Leo.

“No. Don’t move.” Leo bounces up and down. “I don’t want your filthy seed inside of me.”

The tightness is remarkable, unforgettable, unforgivable.

“You’re wonderful.” Xander whispers so quietly that he isn’t sure if he said that at all.

He’s burning. The pain born from sexual indecency is kindling and the soft warmth, accelerant. With a few simple words and motions, Leo reminds him off all the things he can not have. It must be intentional. As Leo’s body feels exactly like he imagined Kamui’s to and his brotherly devotion is the same that Xander saw inside of his dreams. And that haughty yet tender expression must have been mimicked after Ryouma’s. Look, their lips even curl the same.

“Better than Ryouma?” Leo jumps again, letting Xander feel the air for a second before engulfing him once more.

“No. Never better than Ryouma.” Xander says through gritted teeth.

It feels so good, it hurts.

“Better than Corrin, then?”

“I’ve never been with Kamui, Leo.”

“Ah.”

Ryouma orgasms with a hideous scream and Takumi, not long after. He cries out a long, drawn-out moan. Xander almost comes from the eroticism of it all but scratches himself at the peak of it.

“The two of you really can’t handle your drugs, huh?” Leo climbs off Xander and onto the bed.

He trails a finger up Ryouma’s chest with a wicked grin. Laughing, he hooks onto a nipple ring and twists. Ryouma shrieks. His body dances beneath Leo’s hands as if struck by a hot iron, only encouraging the boy to continue.

“You’re so sensitive.” He teases.

“Don’t fucking touch me!” Ryouma jerks away.

Leo slaps him across the chest, he doesn’t even leave a mark, settling his hand on Ryouma’s shaft with a ghostlike touch. There is a sweaty, nervous smell rising up from Ryouma. An anxious taste that Xander hasn’t noticed before. What reason does he have for it?

“You are actually a bit on the large side, aren’t you? How unexpected.” Leo straddles Ryouma’s waist and lets his pussy brush against his erection before pulling away. “You’re not allowed to be in there.”

He’s humming a hymn to himself. So quietly that only Xander can hear it. He didn’t think Leo still did that.

“Take my ass instead.” Gel smushes between Leo’s fingers as he fingers his ass. Mocking Ryouma right in front of his face.

“I hate you.” Ryouma groans.

Leo faces the wall and without even a hint of excitement on his face, takes Ryouma’s cock into himself.

“If you come inside of me, I’m going to do something terrible.” He snickers.

It isn’t funny in the least but Xander laughs too. He laughs at the nature of this world and their unusual situation as he drags Takumi’s slavering body off the bed. At the same time, Leo allows Ryouma to pick him up, letting him support his legs with his hands.

There is no way Ryouma could hold Xander like that. Xander’s much too heavy and much too tall for it. He wonders if that means that Ryouma likes Leo more than him now. If that’s the case then he might as well...

“Are you often the penetrating partner, Lord Takumi?” Xander cuts himself off.

It is as if his soul has been completely divorced from his body. He just goes on, speaking as if he is ignoring every thought that had just violated his mind.

“No.” Takumi squirms.

It’s terribly cute. So cute that Xander can’t help but take him into his mouth. Takumi’s cock tastes like candy you know. As sweet as the inside of his mouth. Ryouma is going to be jealous when he sees what they’re doing, won’t he? He was jealous of Xander and Kamui so he must be jealous of this too. Somehow, that makes Xander want to do it even more. It pushes him forwards. It peels back Takumi’s foreskin and allows him to clean the accumulated filth from it. Salt replaces sugar in Xander’s mouth and he feels like he’s drowning. Drowning to death in a lake hidden from everyone’s sight.

Xander pushes Takumi away and reapplies the lubricant on him with body hands.

“Come to think of it, it isn’t really a foursome if we’re just trading partners, Xander.” Leo says in the way that someone does when they’re hinting at something.

He reaches back and scratches Ryouma’s face just under his eye, stopping his movements entirely.

“Come and join us, big brother.” Leo smiles.

“Normally, I would but you know how much I dislike topping.” Xander replies. “I would be forced to, wouldn’t I?”

What is that? Regret? Doubt? Something that isn’t an enthusiastic degrading of his own morals? How unlike Xander.

“Consider this: You could take my pussy again and if you get in the right position, Takumi could take you. So really, it isn’t topping.” Leo thinks for a moment. “And you can come inside you do.”

Xander hoists Takumi onto the bed, setting him down with the utmost care. The boy has completely lost it now. He’s lost his mind. Even if Xander prods and pokes him, although he does it with some force, the boy responds only with a low whine and desperate tears. He looks up at Xander with adoring eyes and his tongue hanging loosely from the side of his mouth. You know, Leo could probably do this to Ryouma if Xander asked.

But he isn’t sure if that’s what he wants. He isn’t sure if he wants anything. No, that’s wrong. He definitely wants Ryouma to slice him open and fuck the spaces between his intestines. It’s laughable! What was the point of killing his father again?

“Come on, Xander. Make me feel good.” Leo says.

“I don’t want to hurt you.” Xander presses against Leo’s entrance.

Oh. It feels warmer than before. Dirtier. Yes, this is actual sex.

“You won’t.”

He pushes in with a gasp. Barely audible but Leo smirks as if he somehow heard it anyway. Takumi shifts behind Xander, grabbing onto his waist and thrusting inside with little resistance. He nestles against the crook of Xander’s neck like a bird with a soft moan.

“There you go.” Leo gestures and Ryouma starts to move.

Xander takes it as his sign too and starts thrusting. But they’re all dissonant, out of sync. Ryouma is in heat and moves faster than Xander is willing to and Takumi isn’t much better than that. And while Ryouma’s movements have some coherency about them, Takumi is as sloppy as a virgin. It feels good in spite of that. Possibly because of that.

As Xander starts to relax, so does Leo who begins to grind his hips against Ryouma each time Xander thrusts forwards into him. And each time Takumi moves, Xander does. It is a silent agreement - a mingling of moaning and disgusting fluids conducted by their rotten instincts.

Xander twists his fingers in Leo’s short hair and yanks, exposing his full, pink lips. He kisses them without any hesitation. It is a careless, wet embrace that he won’t allow to break until they’re both gasping for air. Oh yes, Xander isn’t human anymore. He’s become a demon at long last! Something that just can’t be broken!

Ah~ His head’s spinning! Dancing! Screaming! As fire crawls into his lungs, as he suffocates on Leo’s breath. Only now does he pull away, drinking in the air that has become a little more sullied.

“Again. Do that again.” Right now, Leo’s face looks exactly the same as Xander’s own.

It’s more than drunken and more than high. Something that those sensations can’t even reach. It’s an epiphany. The sudden, intuitive perception about life or the meaning of something important like that initiated by the simple pleasure of lips against lips. Dare he say it? This is the appearance or manifestation of something otherworldly.

Xander kisses Leo again, rougher this time. So he can taste the blood in it. Although he isn’t sure which one of them was cute. Probably both of them. When Xander moves away, Leo presses his head against his other shoulder and bites down deep enough to leave a bloody gash.

“You’re too rough.” But Xander’s moaning.

His skin feels hot and sticky and so very dirty.

“Shut up!” Leo laughs giddily, smearing a streak of blood down Xander’s cheek.

It feels good.

“Admit it, this gets you off. The violence, the obscenity, behaving in a matter defying God.” Leo’s voice is mixed with Ryouma’s in the back of Xander’s mind and he can not determine its reality.

But do you know what he’s concluded? That it does not matter if those voices exist only in the beast that lurks in his mind or his dearest brother’s and Ryouma’s voices or if they do not exist at all. They are nonetheless manifestations of the truth, of everyone’s most earnest feelings.

Leo crushes Xander’s breast in his hand. Tightness mixed with sharp agony creepy up Xander’s throat as blood vessels burst in his brother’s grip, settling as red spots somewhere in the layers of Xander’s skin. Leo strokes around Xander’s areola with a knowing smile. His movements are light and spectral, soothing the pain and Xander’s anxiety before pulling him deeper into it.

“You look weak like this.” He cuts across Xander’s cheek with a thumbnail.

_“You do. You really do.”_

Takumi, too, places degenerations on his body. In a way that Xander finds almost uncharacteristically bold, he follows Leo’s lead and bites deeply into his shoulder. Blood drips from the wound, twice as much as expected. Xander would like to stop the bleeding but his body is no longer his own, you see. He bucks, with a scream that sounds uncomfortably like a squeal, and orgasms. Takumi followers suit with a low whine, pulling out so that he covers Xander’s ass and lower back.

“Didn’t I tell you not to come inside, Ryouma?” Leo pushes Ryouma into Xander’s open arms.

Into an embrace that is tight enough to leave bruises on his back.

“Don’t worry love, I won’t let him do anything too awful.” Xander adds.

Ryouma gazes blankly up at the stone void that is his ceiling for what feels like hours. More accurately, Xander stares at Ryouma for what feels like hours. What could be hours. He presses his face against his neck and memorizes the scent. Warmth and sensuality and blood turning coppery as it dries are all carved into Xander’s deepest memories. Once again, there is the horrifying urge to lick the semen (the blood) off of Ryouma’s sweat stained skin.

“Your spell is ready.” Leo’s smiling voice tears Xander out from his afterglow.

For a moment, it is almost regretful. All of this is almost remorseful. Even now, do you think he could live by Kamui’s side once more? To hold him tenderly once more! Even now, could he live as a Knight? Righteously without deviation! Even now, do you think that dream can be nurtured? Although the ground has been stained with so much blood!

There is something in the air; a thick and swollen feeling looking down upon him with a tear stained face.

 _“A screw once loosened can not return to its former place and like that screw, you have passed beyond the point from which return is possible.”_ That woman cries out in her saintly voice.

Like the cold warmth of the sun, she is doing her very best in spite of knowing that it isn’t good enough.

 _“And so, our voices can no longer reach you.”_ That man sighs.

As if this isn’t partially his fault. What kind of man takes advantage of a boy that young? When he already knew what his father was doing to him? When he knew that Xander would have rather died than come back here? And if he and Xander and her had all run off together to the country to the west back when was seventeen...

Truthfully, even if Xander could return, he wouldn’t.

 _“So you just wanted attention, then._ ” The walls scream and groan. _“You disappoint me.”_

He would rather die than go back to that.

“Please Leo, be quick. I want to cuddle with Ryouma after this.” Xander speaks loudly and clearly so as to drown out the voices surrounding him.

“Of course.” Leo places a finger against Ryouma’s head and a hand against Xander’s and starts to speak.

Noise, chanting, falls out from Leo’s mouth like a waterfall. Suddenly, explosively, Xander’s brain swarms with uneasy cranial fluids and Ryouma’s every most vile feeling. Contempt and anger, arousal and rage, a loathing bursting from the core of his soul, manipulation, love and love force they way inside. A sea of disgust swallows Xander’s stomach up. An uneasing dream of hatred, defiance, determination, resolution consumes his heart. And his very soul is inflicted with the suffering of death, of separation, of an unpleasant union.

 _“Master, you know how I loathe to criticize you but perhaps you’re going a little too far. The Crown Prince is obviously mentally disturbed, prone to depression and delusions as well as sexual and violent behaviours. More than that, he’s unpredictable. It is just as likely that he will try to kill you if he realises he has been deceived as it is that he kills himself. Indeed, even his suicide will result in another war and with Queen Mikoto gone, I am unsure if we can win.”_ Oh, Xander knows that woman. She has quite an interesting artstyle.

Xander dies a dozen, two dozen, a hundred, times inside of Ryouma’s fantasies and he feels them all intimately. Rajinto’s sting is quite remarkable as it slices him at the waist (his entrails too are surprisingly lovely) and Ryouma’s blunt teeth ripping his body to shreds is an unforgettably passionate experience. As Ryouma mounts his corpse, filled it full of nothing but his most earnest feelings of love, Xander can feel every movement of his hips and the warmth encompassing the two of them.

_“For once, I agree with you. That family are rotten all the way down Master. By the Gods Ryouma, we haven’t even seen my brother. If they really wanted peace, wouldn’t they have tried to get us to make up?” A man whose name eludes Xander said. “If you want Alexander Krackenburg to suffer, I will kill him for you in the most humiliating way possible. Just please, anything but this.”_

Xander is eaten alive by ravens and dogs and then by his beautiful Ryouma. Flesh peels from his body in swathes as the air is filled with the sound of his bones snapping. His body is twisted from beneath hammers and carriages and horses and a dozen other inane things. He bleeds out fifty times in thirty seconds.

 _“I saw Suzukaze with Princess Camilla just the other day, Saizou. You’re being overdramatic. And Kagerou… if he does kill himself, I promise you he will be adamant in his suicide note about not wanting me to be punished. After all, we’re in love.”_ Ryouma laughs.

Ryouma is laughing at him disdainfully. With loathing. With pity. It resonates with Xander’s memories, blinding him with an abhorrent light. There, mingled with feelings of love and determination and anguish, it curls over Xander’s desperation.

 _“Oh, did you think I liked you?”_ The voice turns sticky and dirty in Xander’s head as he grows more and more aware of the pointlessness of his existence.

“You used me!” Wounds split open in Xander’s face, rushing blood out to comfort him; to apologize for his lot in life.

“So I have.” He can’t understand a single thing that Ryouma is thinking. “But do you honestly believe that you deserve any better than that?”

No, of course he doesn’t! He doesn’t deserve to even be smiled at or to be held or for someone to stop hurting him for a moment!

“You wanted to eat my love and affection like a parasite. To perverted my dreams and hopes into something that you could identify with. Honestly, do you think a man like me wants to marry someone like you? Do you think I could raise an heir with you? Surely, if I had offered that lifestyle to you, you would have swallowed up everything I had. Just like you did with Laslow and what you tried to do to Kamui. Just like you did to your Fa--”

“Shut the fuck up!”

“You have done nothing but cause me sorrow. No, not just me. Everyone that you have ever met. All so you can finally find someone desperate enough that they will pretend to love you. So can drive someone mad so you won’t have to be lonely anymore. Tell me Alexander, how do you expect to be loved when you yourself admit you are a disgusting piece of meat?” Ryouma starts to smile.

It is without depth. Without lightning or fire. It shines with the same dull warmth as the sun in the dead of winter and with the same mocking tone as a Hoshidan summer. And he didn’t give Ryouma permission to call him Alexander.

Xander snaps Ryouma’s wrist. There is no measure of hesitation or subtlety or redemption in the act. It just breaks. Twisted, ugly and limp with the texture and nature of ground beef.

“I hate you.” He sighs.

“No you don’t.” Ryouma replies.

“Isn’t it a bit hypocritical of you to be calling Xander a leech, Ryouma?” Leo smiles peacefully, looking almost like a God as he bestows onto Xander the greatest blessing he has ever received. “You’ve been with almost as many men with him, after all. Your beloved retainer, lowly soldiers you picked up, members of your own court, why you’ve even slept with--”

“Get your hands off of me!” Ryouma hisses.

Leo strokes the surface of Ryouma’s skull, digging his fingers into the skin as if he has the strength to break Ryouma apart.

“He isn’t even asking you for that much. Not your love or your devotion or even your friendship. He wants only a little bit of mutual understanding but for some reason, you won’t even give him that. Although you wanted to make him do all sorts of disgusting things for your pathetic self.”

Ryouma’s brain is cracked open like an egg, the soft liquids poured out and exposed for everyone to see. Cracking isn’t really the right word though. You see, the proper procedure to break an egg is to crack it into a bowl or a pan so it doesn’t go everything. So things are neat and convenient and clean for everyone. This is inside like watching someone standing on an elevated stage, bowing enigmatically to a cheering crowd. With a flash of light and a smile, that person cracks the egg onto the floor without so much as breaking the shell.

“Careful Xander, if you focus what’s on front of you things will get troublesome.” Leo’s voice creeps all around him. “Only the images in front of you -- the sounds, the tastes and the smells -- are important. Not the mechanism of how they are seen.”

Across from Xander, ‘atop’ the stage, is a world born of colours so intense that he struggles to breathe. A plain of grass stretches on into infinity before him, glistening with more strength than the evergreen trees he run among as a child. The sky, pure in the absence of clouds, radiates a blue of which he has never seen before; lighter and more fulfilling than a milk paint. And the flowers on even the bushes and trees and the lips of the women bustling around glow with faint pinks and reds the colour of blushes.

“This is Hoshido?” He asks in a thin voice.

Free from the ravages of war and poverty and sin, this is Hoshido. This is Eden. The last place where Xander may rest his blood-soaked body. Completely unexpectedly, envy rises up inside of him. An emerald green lust dark enough to rival the lush foliage that he can not lay a single finger on.

“Yes. This is Hoshido.” Leo repeats a little louder and a little less awestruck.

In the centre of it all is, was, Ryouma. He is hiding among the skirts of the courtly ladies, in the flowers and tall grasses, weeping as he tries to disguise his black eye and split lip. His gentle, childish features are just as round as Kamui’s. No, rounder. Softer, as well with only the long mane of hair and the hidden anger in his eyes reminding Xander of his older self.

“What happened to you?” Xander asks.

As if Ryouma’s child self could hear him or his mature self cared enough to answer such an inane question.

“Shut up!” Ryouma snarls and the air snarls with him.

“It’s an admirable attempt but I can search your entire mind in less than four hours regardless of whether or not you seal those memories away.” Leo’s fingers pass through Ryouma’s skull as if they were intangible.

Ryouma screams, futilely scratching at Leo’s hands as his skull cracks again. The Paradise of sound and colour fades away into an oppressive darkness and the scent of rotting blood and semen is so overbearing that Xander gags. Amid his falling tears and that dreadful scent, Ryouma is trying to stand although his legs keep refusing him. Bloody wounds and half healed, swollen scars paint a picture so familiar that Xander can not break himself to look away although his thighs are burning.

“Show me what happened before then. Show me who ruined you.” Leo says much in the way that a spider might talk to its prey.

“Get out of my head!” Ryouma screams and jerks away.

Have you ever dropped an egg onto hard tile or a countertop? Perhaps even thrown one at someone’s house or some other valuable object? When cracking an egg for the sake of cooking, you crack it down the center so it all goes to the same place. But when you throw one with intent to harm or drop one from a great distance, it shatters instead. This is what Ryouma does. Shatter. Whimpering and scratching himself, shrieking so loudly that Xander can think of nothing else but his voice, he fractures into shards. He is an egg from dropped from a building’s fourty second story. A tomato smashed in someone’s hand. A porcelain plate falling from the highest point.

“This isn’t what happened!” Ryouma screams.

His throat must hurt by now.

“Isn’t it though?” Leo says.

Ryouma kneels, so far down that his head is scraping against the hard stone floor, down before a man whose face is obscured in false shadow (but whose musculature and smell are within Xander’s good memory).

“Are you ready to begin your training?” That man asks with a slight smile.

“As always.” Ryouma replies, barely able to restrain the trembling in his voice or the fear in his eyes.

“Good boy.”

Puffy scars and bruises of varying colourations (purple and pink and blue flesh lined with greens and yellows) start to reveal themselves as Ryouma strips down. His arms and neck are covered in red marks like rashes and his stomach and back are marked with scars from whips and nails. Yes, Xander knows what’s happening here.

The man reaches a hand out and caresses the side of Ryouma’s cheek, pinching it hard to enough to leave a mark. Ryouma stares back with an empty expression. The sort of face that says his mind has abandoned his body some time ago. But like Xander’s father, his partner doesn’t care in the least. Regardless of Ryouma’s visual discomfort and the sound of his tears against the ground, the man takes his cock out and presses it between Ryouma’s ass.

“I’m on a tight schedule.” The man speaks with a voice as disastrous as a tropical storm. “Stop squirming.”

He runs over Ryouma’s bruises with his nails that cut like knives. Drops off blood are drawn up and sacrificed to some unseen God, staining the mat beneath Ryouma with all the colours of hatred. Ryouma’s spine dances as he’s forced into. It desperately tries to break out from constriction of flesh so it might at least offer Ryouma something to focus on.

“Forgive me.” Ryouma speaks, spoke, according to a script he must have known by heart.

“How many times did he do this to you?” Xander asks.

He sounds like he’s going to cry. What does he have to be sad about?

“Once every two weeks, it seems like.” Leo replies.

Ryouma screams with terror and pain as the man settles him against his lap.

“I said stop squirming.” He shoves a single hand against Ryouma’s throat, covering it so not even a single patch of skin is visible.

As Ryouma is choked, his partner thrusts upwards into him. The mingling of the pain of slowing blood and sexual pleasure must be maddening. Indeed, Ryouma’s eyes cloud over a little and he smiles in a haze; like he’s having a lovely dream. Xander wonders if, in that dark little room, Ryouma was dreaming of a man with a smile like the sun setting in the west, with a body all gangly and scarred. When Xander was thinking of Ryouma was Ryouma thinking of him too? And when Xander fell in love with the man of his dreams did Ryouma as well?

“Enough! Enough! I’ve had enough!” Ryouma’s screams are not nearly loud enough to block out the orgasmic moans coming from his younger self nor are they able to disguise the mounting despair in his suddenly aged voice.

“The pain can end at anytime Ryouma. Simply open yourself up and show me your greatest sins. Alright?” Leo replies.

Ryouma buries his face in his partner’s neck and starts to sob.

“It hurts.” He whimpers.

The darkness and Ryouma’s inconsistent hazy memories start to give way, clarifying the man’s features one by one. A round, upturned nose (as it were sneering down at everyone) and a long mane of hair in an unusual pattern (black with streaks of yellow and white) break through the dark first. Followed by his eyes, glistening yellow like a tiger’s in the faint light, overflowing with the sentiment of a cat chasing a rabbit; pursuing for the sake of pursuing. The man’s teeth are reminiscent of a demon’s as well. A maw crammed full of sparking, sharpened fangs.

“Your pain is the point.” The man laughs.

His voice claps like thunder, resonating in the back of Xander’s mind. When he laughs like that, just a little bit, that man looks kind of like... Ah. So that’s how it is.

“How can you, in good conscience, look down on me for loving my Father when you have done the exact thing at the exact same age?” Yes, it isn’t funny in the least but Xander is laughing so hard his chest hurts anyway. “And how can you blame my Father for how he has treated me when you gladly let yours do this? How can you blame me? When we have been used and discarded the exact same way? You should no better than anyone how much pain I’m in!”

“Stop!” Ryouma tries to pry Leo’s fingers off his forehead.

It is a completely pointless endeavour.

“This is supposed to be a punishment Ryouma. Can’t you understand something as simple as that?” That man smiles a terrible smile, a dreadful smirk, one that Xander knows better than he knows Ryouma. “I love you anyway.”

Incense and lavender and a number of other things that Xander can not identify fill the room as the scene changes to one of empty splendor. In it is nothing but a bath large enough to fit fifty people, some smattering of half-dead flowers and incense burning in the corner as if it can do anything about the musky scent infesting the place. There, in the corner of the bath, is Ryouma again.

He takes a blade off the countertop and carefully slides it across his wrist. The blood beads up on his wrist and falls away, getting lost in the startlingly clean bathwater. That must be a metaphor for something. Perhaps simply that pain slowly builds up and overtakes the purity of a thing. Why, you would never drink water that someone has bled in, would you? Thereby, broken people and non-virgins are completely unacceptable.

“It’s red. Plain red.” Leo spits out Ryouma’s thoughts like curses.

Ryouma dips two fingers in the blood and smears it across his cheek. He’s making a strange face, an apathetic yet curious expression. As if he were a scientist examining some bacteria and not a man bleeding a concerning amount into the bathtub.

“If I’m a godly child then my blood ought to reflect that.” Ryouma licks his blood off his fingertips and sneers at it.

He cuts himself again (like it will change). Deeply enough that the water below him turns a cloudy red, stained with the sentiment of blood and an iron scent so strong it cloys in the back of Xander’s throat.

“Tastes like shit.” He laughs.

In the back of Xander’s mind, he is tearing the skin off Ryouma’s body with sharpened teeth. He is cracking bones in his jaw and slurping down the bone marrow as if it were ambrosia. In his decaying mind, he is a demon jealously choking down mouthfuls of his God although it burns his mouth. Although he loved his God more than anything. Is this how demons usually feel?

Is this how Xander is going to come to understand Ryouma? With his mouth all aflame? In flesh and blood? In bones and with a sexual desire that is dissolving? With violence and revenge left unsatisfied? Is this really how Xander wants to rediscover love?

“That is quite the complex you have there, Ryouma. Not only do you look down on everyone, even your own brother, but yourself and your Father but you consider yourself to be the lowest scum. I wonder, is it fair to consider those lowly soldiers to be lowly when you have lived your life as nothing but a nuisance? When even your Father thinks you are a weak, useless creature?” Leo asks.

“Go to Hell.” Ryouma says through gritted teeth.

And the scene changes again.

“Ah here it is. Your lowest point.”

This is it. This is Xander’s Ryouma; his ideal. Ryouma has teeth like a cat’s and eyes burning as intensely as a flame. He is a God with a body made of marble and misplaced rage. This is the Ryouma that is twitching in Leo’s hands, making an expression that Xander is so au fait with, he starts to weep.

Xander’s ideal is straddling some man whose name and face are completely and utterly forgettable. His straight black hair and dark brown eyes wouldn’t be uncommon on even a Nohrian man and his short stature yet broad, tanned body is perfectly average for a Hoshidan. Actually, he doesn’t seem to have any identifying markers. His face is as wrinkled as a man in his age range’s should be, his body is as scarred as any ‘gentleman’ officer’s usually is. Yet, in spite of his complete and utter averageness, Xander holds more hatred for this man that he has for anyone else in his entire life.

“So we’re certain; The payment for anal is only ten thousand gold?” However, his voice is actually shockingly deep.

Deeper than Xander’s own. Perhaps this is really the kind of man that Ryouma likes. A masculine but distasteful man of whom has never done anything too important nor felt anything too strongly in his entire life. Then again, doesn’t that describe Xander?

“Usually, yes. But not for you Takanori.” Ryouma runs his hands through the man’s hair, separating out the pitch black strands. “For someone as honourable, and as handsome, as yourself, I give myself away at half-price. Five thousand.”

“And if I want to cut you?” Takanori asks.

“Seven. And if you don’t intend to heal the cars away afterwards, eight.” Ryouma replies.

The man takes his tanto and presses it against Ryouma’s leg. It slices through the flesh as if it were margarine, leaving a hairline cut on the outside of Ryouma’s thigh.

“I didn’t say you could start already.” Ryouma moans.

Takanori trails the sword between Ryouma’s breasts all the way to his crotch and watches with a satisfied purr as the blood flows out in glorious ribbons.

“Then why do you look like you’re ready to orgasm already? You slut.” He says it so passionately. So convicted. As if he has any right to call his Prince that.

As if he isn’t using and abusing a godlike man for the sake of his own disgusting pleasure. Where is his sense of patriotism? Where is his chivalry? His loyalty? He really ought to know what fate befalls men who try to sully ideals.

Ryouma takes out a bottle of oil and coats his fingers with it so that not even a bit of his skin remains unslickened. Teasingly, he starts massaging it around his entrance. His fingers stroke around the rim, gently brushing over soft flesh, before he slides a finger inside.

“Let me touch you.” Takanori demands.

“In a minute.” Ryouma hums.

He runs his other hand down Takanori’s pathetically average cock, thumbing the slit as precum starts to drip. It throbs, trembling in his palms. And to think, Ryouma told Xander he was a virgin. As usual, he was trying to make himself superior. “I’m not a slut like you.” That is what he wanted to say. And again, predictably, he has betrayed that expectation of superiority. Truthfully, Ryouma is just as much of a whore as Xander, isn’t he? After all, he’s throwing himself away like this.

Ryouma stands up and crouches slightly so his entrance is lined up with the tip of Takanori’s shaft. He lowers himself until it is pressed awkwardly against the opening and with that same, mocking smirk, slams down on it (so that he envelops the entire length) with a scream of excruciating pain. Or terrible pleasure. His flushed cheeks and the imprints of his nails in his own shoulders say “I hate this” but the precum dripping from his semi-erection means something else. It has the same shameful pleasurable feeling that Xander’s father used to pound into him. Oh yes, he knows that cruel, contradictory sense of satisfaction very well.

Even disregarding his father (as if you could do something like that when he won’t shut up about him), Xander has been with this kind of man before. During his first tour with the army, at the impressionable age of sixteen, he had prostituted himself for the sake of having some meagre amount of spending money. No, he’s lying. He did it so he could reduce his profound sense of loneliness. So he could feel wanted and needed. But regardless of his efforts or of the seemingly ‘soft’ nature of his partners, he ended up being used and thrown away like a toy by the end of the night. If he wanted to be treated like a masturbation aid, he would have disappeared off into the woods with the Faceless. At least then he would have been held.

“It’s so big.” Ryouma pulls his hips up so high that only the tip is still inside of him.

Takanori forces him back down by the waist.

“I said don’t tease me.” He growls.

“Why shouldn’t I?” Ryouma moves up again only to get slapped across the thighs.  
There is a deafening clap but Xander doesn’t seem to be able to cover his ears or look away. No, he just stares at it with that same apathetically curious expression. As if this weren’t an earnest reflection of his worst memories...

Oh.

“Because I said so.” Takanori stabs the tanto into Ryouma’s stomach.

Not far enough to cause any permanent injury or significant blood loss but there is most certainly an opening in it now. A gash has been carved open on Ryouma’s lean muscles; a space revealing the thinnest, most miniscule layer of fat that Xander has ever seen. Ryouma purrs and runs his thumb around the edge of that gash as if it weren’t an intrusion but rather, an erogenous zone embedded on the hard muscle. He pushes into it with an orgasmic moan.

“It feels like a pussy.” Blood oozes out like vaginal fluid, soaking his fingers with an ardent joy.

“You must be some kind of a deviant.” Takanori laughs.

Ryouma rises himself up again and hovers on the tip, squeezing down on it.

“You can finger it too.” He sits down.

Takanori covers his finger with blood and traces symbols on Ryouma’s stomach. A cherry blossom, verbena, some assorted characters that Xander doesn’t particularly care to decipher, his own name.

“Now you are my property.” He starts to move Ryouma to his own sloppy and violent pace. To the rough, ill-timed movement of the hips and ass that he seems to think feels better than the skillful dance that Ryouma employed.

Yet Ryouma, as if trying to encourage the man or something else shockingly against his inner nature, continues to moan and writhe where he sits.

“And we absolutely won’t be separated.” Ryouma pulls the tanto away by the blade.

It slices into his fingers, its grip on the flesh being the only thing keeping it from falling from Ryouma’s wet (with blood and oil) hands. In less than a second, he flips the blade around and stabs it into Takanori’s chest.

“What the fu--” Takanori is interrupted with the sound of Ryouma slicing away his flesh.

“Ssh.” He carves into the skin and fat, cutting until he reaches the muscles.

On the right breast, covered with blood and an unreasonable sociability, is “White”. On the left, “Night.”. Byakuya. The Midnight Sun. Takanori screams and bucks his hips, orgasming in spite of (or because of) the intense pain.

“It was a pleasure doing business with you.” Ryouma stands, wrapping his yukata around himself and throws the tanto on the ground.

“Get back here.” Takanori reaches out weakly.

Ryouma steps away.

“If you consider to try and break away from Hoshido, I am going to reveal our affair. Which you now have a permanent marking as proof of. But we can still fuck sometimes.” He smiles.

“Rot in hell.” He coughs.

“I will take that as a no then.” He steps out from the room, snapping his fingers.

Kagerou appears by his side.

“Make sure he doesn’t try to kill himself.” He says.

“As you wish.” And the scene fades out with Kagerou tending to that man’s chest.

Ryouma tries to break from Leo’s grasp but his grip is much too tight.

“You said I could go, you little shit!” Ryouma seethes.

“So I did, so I did. But I’ve found something just as interesting as all of that. I’ve found out your relationship with Saizou.”

“Xander please, he’s hurt--” Ryouma screams.

Xander huddles up and covers his ears, staring blankly ahead at the scene. Lying before him is a room so filthy that it is anathema to his dreams of bright blue Hoshidan skies. Ryouma is stretched out on a tatami mat smeared with blood and old semen and with a heap of discarded clothing as a replacement for a pillow. Besides him is a man just as unclean as the rest of the place. His face is unshaven and he has a myriad of scars above his mouth and the scent hanging around him is the same as Niles’. Oh, but it has a note to it that Xander is vaguely acquainted with. Nitre. He smells like nitre. Oh. This must be Saizou. Saizou the Fifth.

What was his relationship with Ryouma again?

“Are you ready to begin?” Ryouma asks.

“Of course. I wouldn’t have come if I wasn’t ready.” Saizou replies. “But are you? This could kill you, my Lord.”

And what would befall the man who killed the High Prince of Hoshido? Certainly life imprisonment if not execution. That is, of course, the primary reason why he would be so insisted that Ryouma not do whatever it is that he is doing. After all, there exists no person who has ever loved Ryouma as much as Xander loved Ryouma. Still loves Ryouma. Yes, in spite of everything, Xander still loves him.

“As a dog returns to its vomit, a fool returns to its folly.” Ryouma’s voice whispers from the dark.

Xander knows that. Of course he knows that. He has heard it as a thousand times before and will hear it a thousand times again. But what can he do? He’s lonely.

“I wouldn’t have come if I wasn’t ready.” Ryouma banters back.

He is smiling as he says it; smiling so honestly that his eyes hold nothing but the purest intentions inside of them. No one is ever going to look at Xander like that again.

“Of course.” Saizou takes a measure of hemp rope, about three feet long, from the bag hanging off his hip.

“It’s a good length.” Ryouma runs a finger over the rope. “Tie it for me.”

“Do you intend to die?” Saizou asks and although his voice does not fall and although his expression remains hard, he is crushed.

They must be lovers. So really, someone else has loved Ryouma as Xander has. How stupid he must have been to have thought that up until now! Why, Ryouma practically told him what their relationship was.

“No. I have only accepted that it is a possibility and want to be prepared for that outcome.” Despite Ryouma’s steady voice, Xander doesn’t believe him.

There is just something about the glint of his eyes. Or maybe it’s just because Xander has been to that place far too many times to count. Once, he tried to hang himself on the doorknob of his room. Did you know that?

There is just something about the glint in his eyes. Or perhaps it is just because Xander has been that place more times than he can recall and as such, is projecting onto Ryouma. Once, he tried to hang himself on the doorknob of his room, watching as Tyger’s head stared at him from across the room with a silent hatred. Another time, he threw himself from the window of his father’s room. Even though he fell seven stories, he survived with minimal injuries. It’s a funny story.

“I don’t want to hurt you.” Saizou says, almost whispering.

“You won’t be doing anything I don’t want.” Ryouma replies.

Saizou takes the hemp and fashions it into a noose. The knot is tight and neat enough that Ryouma has absolutely no hope of removing it on his own. That is probably how he would like it.

“Is this what you wanted?”

“No.” Ryouma sighs. “I could do that myself Saizou.”

He unties the knot as if it were as loosely fastened as boot laces.

“I want you to strangle me until I stop breathing.” Ryouma clarifies.

Something is crawling underneath Xander's skin, biting at the tendons in his wrist, gnawing until he can’ do anything beyond scratching at it. So he does. He scratches until his wrist is raw with the texture of ground beef. No, more than that. He scratches until the skin is dyed red and his fingernails threaten to break off inside the wound.

“If that is your will.” Saizou loops the rope around Ryouma’s throat until an entire foot has been used up. It almost looks like jewelry. Like a strange, new trend of foreign fashion. That’s because Ryouma can make anything seem beautiful, you know.

Saizou constricts, strangling until both the flesh around the rope and Ryouma’s face have turned a startlingly deep pink. Until it turns purple. Until he just… stops.

“What are you doing?” Ryouma coughs.

“I don’t want to.” Saizou says in a weak voice.

For a moment, Xander almost sympathizes with him.

“You’ve been mislead by Ryouma, as well, haven’t you?” He wants to ask. “He’s used you too, hasn’t he?”

At the very least, he wants to know if Saizou loves Ryouma like he loves Ryouma. If it is the love of God that makes his feelings so painful. But it hurts. The cut on his wrist and the markings on his tonsils hurt. In spite of Xander’s desperate scratching, he’s being eaten from the inside.

“Saizou!” Ryouma demands.

And like a dog, Saizou obeys him. Underneath all of those scars and the bluster and the overpowering scent of coal, he is a little bit like Xander, isn’t he? Obedient. Pitiful. Desperately holding onto that love, his ideal, as a lifeline. Xander almost regrets the fate that will inevitably befall him.

Saizou tightens the rope, not stopping until Ryouma’s skin has turned a sickening blue colour and the breath hitches in his throat. He goes beyond that. Until Ryouma scratches desperately at the rope, trying to snap it. Until he faints. Then, with an almost teary expression, Saizou releases.

“Why did you stop?” Leo mocks in a tone that is far too close to Ryouma’s speaking voice for Xander’s liking. “I wanted to die. Didn’t you realize?”

“Did you love him, Ryouma?” Xander can feel his voice breaking as it wriggles out of his mouth.

It is frail and emotionally disturbed, buried partially in the shadows created by Ryouma’s fading fantasies and the sense of being emptied. Xander has put so many of his hopes and prayers into the jar that is Ryouma, so many emotions. His notions of escaping went in there, the mounting despair of being abandoned and the climaxing hopelessness at Laslow’s current state.

“Get out of my head.” Ryouma growls.

“Do you still love him?” He’s putting his anger and fear in that jar, too.

Like this, Ryouma has become something of a comfort blanket to Xander. Something to make him feel better after a cold, miserable night. Something to help make him just a little bit stronger, to give him the feeling of being held once more. Something to serve as a suitable replacement for everything else that Xander has been attached to. Yes, Ryouma is his cast-iron replica of his Father. Just a little bit, he’s replacing Laslow too. Although the thought of admitting it is enough to break Xander apart.

“I said get out of my fucking head!” Ryouma lunges off the bed and grabs Xander by the hair, twisting the curls around in his hand.

His anger must be incredibly strong right now to keep moving after that injury. He must have started to hate Xander now. Then again, judging by the way that he treated Saizou in that vision, he must have started hating Xander the moment he separated them.

“Answer me.” Xander says.

He breaks open a hole in his cheek, letting the blood and flesh tear away as a desperate offering to whatever Gods may still be watching them. As if they would accept it! His blood is corrupted, with malice, as corrosive as stomach acid! It burns his tonsils up, peeling away the skin until all that remains is immaculate, painless marble. Oh, if only all of him could feel that way. If only Ryouma could.

“Shut up and listen to me for once, Alexander!” Ryouma spits his name. “Do you know why I’ve been so nice to you Xander? Can’t your shitty, rotten brain understand something as simple as that?”

The blood soaking Xander seems so fake right now. It is grainy, turning sticky and unsure as it clings to the inside of his fingernails with a red so dark that it can not possibly belong to a human. This is it, isn’t it? The absolute proof of Xander’s real nature. Crimson singing out to Hell, refusing anything like salvation.

“You are it, Alexander! You are my last and only hope! The only person in this fucking hellscape that can set me free! That can save Takumi and Kamui! Who can save Hoshido! And if you aren’t going to do any of that for me, why should I love you?”

Kamui. Kamui. Kamui. Kamui has the whitest skin. He has the clearest eyes. He has never done anything to anyone of his own violation. And yet… And yet… He has taken Xander’s father’s attention and Ryouma’s affection and has not offered Xander even the option to visit him. He wasn’t even going to help him. Help Nohr. No, he was running away again! To the country of the sun where he wouldn’t have to worry about being hungry or thirsty again! Wouldn’t you do the same thing? Xander wo-- No, no, of course he wouldn’t.

“Leo, I don’t think we’re done yet. Show me what Ryouma really thinks about Kamui.”

Leo tugs Ryouma back by his mane, splitting his skull open with an unyielding curiosity.

“I am starting to think that your uneasing disrespect of my brother is some form of masochism. So tell me, are you a goddamned masochist? Or do you miss your Father that much?” Baring the last thing that Ryouma refuses to show.

“Don’t talk about my Father.” Ryouma whimpers.

In the recesses of Xander’s memories, Kamui is sprawled out on a mat three times the size of Xander’s bedframe. He tosses and turns with only a thin sheet separating him from the oppressive heat of the Hoshidan Summer. It’s raining though, isn’t it? The thumping against the roof and the smell of Kamui’s skin tells Xander that. Really, the sheet isn’t doing anything. Kamui’s skin still shines with dew and sweat and Ryouma’s unforgiving gaze.

“I love you.” Ryouma climbs onto the mat beside Kamui, pressing his face against the drenched skin.

So this is it. This is the reason why Ryouma won’t stop hurting Xander and why Ryouma refuses to so much as empathize with him. It is the reason why Ryouma is in so much pain. Why he keeps acting out like that. Quite simply, there are too many people who Ryouma loves too much. His father. Saizou. Kamui. And like Xander (he’s acting almost exactly like Xander right now actually), he finds it troublesome to let any of them go.

But, thankfully, the solution is remarkably easy. Xander just has to make room for himself. Then he and Ryouma can--

Ryouma pulls the sheet from Kamui’s skin, it’s so white that it looks translucent in the moonlight, revealing an oh so delicate ribcage. It rises and falls in time with Ryouma’s own shaking breaths. Almost as if it is anticipating something. “Come and take me.” it rises. “Destroy me.” it falls.

Ryouma trails his tongue down Kamui’s nape, tracing each one of those ribs individually, granting their most obvious desires. Kamui gasps and struggles on the bed. His amazing sensibility and hypersensitivity are just some more things that Xander can simply not obtain.

“I love you so much it hurts.” Ryouma lets his cock slip from his fundoshi. It throbs in his hand with a sexual depravity that seems almost rehearsed.

Ryouma buries his face in Kamui’s small breasts, jerking himself off with an absolutely lascivious nature. Kamui groans and Ryouma steals a kiss from his open mouth. If you feel comfortable calling something like that kissing. To Xander, it is more like an assault. Ryouma forces himself inside Kamui’s mouth, suffocating his brother’s unconscious form with a shameless carnality.

“Kamui.” Ryouma takes Kamui’s nipple in his mouth and sucks.

The boy trembles underneath him, writhes as a worm beneath a magnifying glass, blushing like a maiden being spoilt. Ryouma traces Kamui’s sides with an agonizing slowness. And as if taunting Xander, settles at his brother’s thighs. He releases his cock and takes one in each hand, smiling with an abominable pleasure as the flesh molds like bread dough between his fingers. They turn red with the imprints of his hands. One as light and as vibrant as the flowers that Ryouma used to hide in.

“Kamui!” Ryouma pushes his cock between the boy’s thighs and starts to thrust.

His movements are wild but there is a concern about them that Xander can’t even think about being touched with. Ryouma will never move that way with him. He will never smile at him the way he smiles at Kamui. He won’t laugh with such pride or hold him with such softness. But why would he? When Xander’s heart is too sensitive to handle love and his skin is too rough to touch? His body is too angular and hard to be appealing to even lovers of the male form and since he’s such a whore, he can’t even offer up his virginity. Even his eyes, although his father had praised them so, have become clouded. They were before he and Ryouma ever even met. For God’s sake, he doesn’t know to love himself so how can he expect anyone else to? What exactly does he have that’s worth obtaining?

What was he thinking! What did he expect? He is an animal born to pleasure his father and to rip and tear his enemies apart. He can’t do anything else. He can’t even save the one person who loved him without coercing and without sexual favours and without even begging!

How could a useless creature like himself compete with Kamui? With his delicate and slight figure? With his perfect skin and heart?

It isn’t even as if Xander can ruin those eyes or harden that pale skin or alter or destroy or vanquish Kamui’s childish appeal! Even if Kamui were to be crippled, he would only develop a helpless nature about him that older men just can’t resist! Even if he were to be burnt, the untainted flesh would only become more lovely by comparison! And if he killed him, oh if he killed him…!

Xander rips a hole beneath his adam’s apple and chokes on the gushing blood. One day, he is probably going to scratch himself so hard he tears his throat right out. You can see it that reality too, can’t you? Xander drowning in the dark in his own blood wearing smiling as if he were satisfied, as if all of his innermost wishes had been fulfilled? Oh what a world that would be.

“I have seen enough Leo.” He mumbles from outside the haze that is his vision and the smell of Ryouma’s unrestrained arousal.

Ryouma comes across Kamui’s thighs and stomach, staining them irrevocably with the colours of his shame. Certainly, Kamui has now become disgraced. Tainted. Impure. Forever marked by his older brother’s indiscretions. And certainly, subconsciously, he is going to remember this moment. That is simply the way of this world.

Leo slowly retracts his hands from Ryouma.

“I’m sorry Xander.” He says and Xander doesn’t believe him.

But, for some reason, Xander doesn’t think it matters.

There is a fire inside of him now. A raging inferno that is consuming his rationality and his feelings, devouring everything that is left of him. And it won’t stop until there is nothing left to burn. It engulfs Xander’s tonsils in gastric acid and eats away at his sensibility. Slowly, terribly slowly, Xander is going to lose himself. Yes, from the top of his throat to the bottom of his delicate heart to his very reason of existence, his being, his soul, is being eroded.

That doesn’t matter either. And why should it? Why should anything? It isn’t as if Xander has a future or anywhere he can belong to again. It isn’t as if there is anyone waiting for him or who needs him or who even wants him around. After all, Laslow isn’t himself anymore, is he? And that’s Ryouma’s fault! That’s Kamui’s fault! He could have stopped this, both of them could have! So perhaps, no definitely, it doesn’t matter if Xander throws his morality away now.

Ryouma breaks free and slasps Xander across the face with his good hand. He must hate Xander to tears if he is willing to let that compound fracture just dangle there. I mean, he’s going to lose his sword arm now because of it.

Isn’t it a little bit funny?

 _“Stronger than the abhorrent light of the sun.”_ Ryouma’s acid sings inside of Xander’s stomach.

Ryouma strikes him again.

“I told you to get out of my head.” And again.

Xander can hardly feel it and everything that does manage to break through his defense only serves to excite him even more.

Ryouma’s is so dedicated to whatever stupid fucking cause he’s going on about now that he hasn’t even realized how pointless it is for him to try to escape from this place. Hoshido will still be dominated. Takumi will still be here. Saizou is still going to suffer and break for his worthless sake. And he won’t even have Raijinto to save himself with. No, instead, he’ll live as a cripple until Xander takes the East and everything that lies beyond it.

So, really, it’s too late. Everything is much, much too late. Once Ryouma had crossed the threshold to this room, neither one of them could ever return.

“You were broken before even coming here.” Xander laughs.

It’s funny! It is the funniest thing that Xander has ever seen!

Ryouma is a marble statue with the nose broken off. Ryouma is a candle that has burnt out. Ryouma is a porcelain plate falling from the highest point and shattering upon impact. Ryouma is the last person on Earth that can understand what Xander is going through and Xander is the same for him.

“Isn’t that right?” He asks more to himself than to Ryouma.

Like he’d notice.

“Not a single one of those things happened.” Ryouma repeats it as if it were his mantra. Xander wants to tell him that those don’t work, his father didn’t really love him and his mother died because she saw what he was going to become. “You and that bitch have perverted my memories to try and break me and to t--”

Xander twists Ryouma’s wrist into the correct position. Ryouma shrieks. Uselessly, he tries to pull away only to break it further.

“Does Kamui know?’ Xander asks.

By now, he really should have realized how much stronger Xander is. I mean, it’s been four weeks. Four and a half weeks? Four weeks. Maybe. Anyway, Xander is constantly beating and restraining him so he really should have noticed.

“Is it him Ryouma? Is Kamui the one person that you love selfishly?” Not Saizou. Not himself. Kamui.

Again, like a recurring pain or a frequent unpleasant dream, Kamui is snatching love and attention right out of Xander’s mouth. He is stealing Xander’s very breath. But since Xander loves his little brother so much, he is going to save him regardless. He will make it so Kamui has someone to look up to. Someone to rely on. Won’t that be wonderful?

“Yes.” Ryouma speaks with an amazing clarity. As if he has finally come to understand something about himself.

Xander laughs. It isn’t anything dramatic or maddening or even particularly sad. A simple “ha ha” like he is laughing in response to a joke that he found amusing but not terribly so. Yes, Xander laughs and he keeps laughing until they turn into screams.

 _“Don’t hate me! Don’t abandon me! Don’t go anywhere!”_ A black tendril, acting as a false tongue, trails stinking blood throughout Xander’s insides and all up and down the carpeted floor. Oh, he’s going to have to replace that now. _“Ryouma, oh, Ryouma!”_

“I waited for you!” His voice wavers even though he is screaming loud enough to shred his vocal chords “I loved you!”

He pulls Ryouma by his ruined wrist (by this point, amputation is all but unnecessary) and holds him close. Close enough that he can taste Ryouma’s contempt.

“I worshipped you Ryouma.” Xander smiles. “You were my God.”

He twists the wrist back, breaking the last nerves and tendons attaching it to Ryouma’s forearm. Ryouma shrieks, sobbing. His pain thrusts against Xander’s eardrums, begging for a release from itself, for an enlightenment, for the sake of pleasure hiding inside of mental desecration and physical destruction. God, it’s unbearable!

“The stars made you from sunlight and malice and the moon made me from the shadows lingering from where my hands can not reach. So, surely, we were meant to become one. That’s why we’ve been dreaming about each other.” Xander runs his tongue down the side of Ryouma’s severed hand.

The flesh tastes bittersweet.

“Don’t touch me.” Ryouma hisses.

He probably thinks that Xander and him are the same kind of beast. Selfish and frail amateur Gods, sucking on worship and devotion until they as fat and bloated as drowned rats. Men who throw their partners away when they see something a little cuter. Or could he be agreeing with Xander’s father? Could it be that he thinks that since Xander’s can’t live on his own, he can do whatever he wants?

Xander won’t let that happen. He won’t let his father win again! See, he’s his own person now!

“I love you Alexander.” His mind is being swallowed down in chunks by a centipede wearing that ‘thing’s’ face and voice. “Far more than your Mother.”

“Stop fucking lying to me!” Xander claws at Ryouma’s chest, laughing at how pure the blood is.

He smears it down his face, marveling at how it can stay so clean.

“Ryouma! Ryouma! Ryouma!” He licks it off his fingers. “Tell me Ryouma, how have you managed to keep it so clean? How have you managed to nurture those hateful eyes above all else? When I could not? You’re as ruined as me, Ryouma! Infected with malice! Unclean! So why, why, why, why…!”

Ryouma’s expression remains unchanged. His stoic, absentminded face is as it always was and his breathing is as steady as it can be. Steadier than it should be. It feels almost as if he--

Xander forces his clothing onto his body as fast as his fingers will move. But his hands slip over and off the buttons so he can only get four or so on before the pressure overtakes him. His laces are equally as uncooperative, constantly sliding. So he ends up with one tied tightly and one as loosely as can be wearable.

“Leo, please get Jakob and make sure that Ryouma doesn’t bleed to death on the floor.” Xander says.

“Xander, where are you going?” Leo tries to chase after him.

It’s futile.

“To finish what I started.” Xander replies.

He should have done this a very, very long time ago.

***

It’s still cold. Mercifully, apathetically cold. Xander starts to weep, face pressed against the steel, as he tries to understand what a world without pain or judgement must feel like. Can mortals even reach it? Can he? Although his hands have been stained with blood?

The door, nonetheless, whispers to him.

 _“There is no judgement in Hell, my dearest Alexander. Nor are there any morality plays or a sense of righteousness in the eyes of demons. Yes, Ryouma’s vibrantly hazel eyes are free of all of it, are they not? Clouded over and cold. Manipulative and cruel. Yet, as freeing and as merciful as a steel blade.”_ It speaks.

Xander strokes the scratches lined up on his arm and nods although he doesn’t quite understand.

_“In that case, is Paradise not Hell? Is unending, immoral pleasure not Heaven? “_

They throb a little although it is not unpleasant.

“ _It can be done Alexander! You can do it! You can take Kamui’s thin legs and smash them to pieces! You can take those clear eyes and thoroughly engrave upon them the love of them brute! You can render him unable to judge you or look down on you or think anything terrible about you ever again! Render him unlovable! So you never need to be afraid again! All you have to do is break him as you will break Ryouma, as I broke you.”_ His father cries.

Xander penetrates the gaping wound on his arm with two fingers, spreading it until it gapes wider than the one on Ryouma’s stomach did.

_“For your eyes were once clear, weren’t they Xander? Your body was once pure, wasn’t it? Tell me boy, what happened after I scarred and crippled you? Abused you both mentally and sexually?”_

Xander moans and strokes his erection through his tights.

“I became meat.” He mumbles.

 _“No. You became my beloved dog.”_ His father corrects.

“Kamui would look so cute like that.” The flesh swells around the wound, finally settling at the glorious purple that his father loved so.

 _“Yes, he will be.”_ It calls out. _“And like this, he can become your beloved little brother that will never betray you or steal from you or run away again. And Ryouma shall be your wonderful husband and will choke you and beat you and be choked and be beaten at your pleasure.”_

The mural of scars painted across Xander’s body all throb in unison with yearning. They want to be a toy again. That’s what they’re telling Xander.

_“Won’t that be nice, Alexander? Isn’t that all you have ever wanted, Alexander? To be wanted? To be needed? To be used and abused but never thrown away? To be treated like I treated you once more! No, even better than that! You’re going to be loved, Alexander! More than I loved you! More than Tyger or Laslow or any of those useless men that hurt you loved you!”_

“Yes, a thousand times, yes!” Xander replies.

_“Then go forth and experience rapture.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, there you go. Ryouma's true nature is laid out simply for everyone to see and think over. Or not. I mean, consider Leo's character. It is absolute possible, even likely, for him to have embellished if not straight up fabricated memories for Ryouma. Think about how Leo considers Xander too in this chapter. It isn't as if he has any reason to do his brother a favour.
> 
> lol
> 
> Also sorry if this chapter is irredeemable shit.


	7. Indeed You Should Just Die

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kept you waiting, huh?

“I’m coming in Kamui!” Xander tries to hide his laughter beneath a veneer of reasonable sociability.

As if such a cheap trick could fool Kamui! He is the one that invented it, after all. Wearing the face of a young maiden in love -- a trembling boy -- he has dashed Nohr’s dreams and hopes and their desperate wishing for quiet days for the benefit of those damned Hoshidans. For all that boy cares for, they can all just go and die, isn’t that right? That was what was written with Kamui’s actions, in his eyes and what was solidified by the child growing inside of that woman’s stomach.

“I’m coming inside!” Xander laughs. “Let’s be like brothers once more!”

He pushes the door open with a sly smile. Kamui’s lithe form is curled up on the ground, cowering. He’s covered his ears and closed his eyes as if he was hiding from some monster. Well, perhaps he is. Xander’s teeth shine like ivory in the darkness and his nervous system has engorged red with an abnormal sexual desire. More than that, he has never done anything but cause suffering. So what is he then, eh? His father knows. Kamui knows. Ryouma knows and won’t shut up about it. Since everyone knows, why is he hiding from himself? It isn’t as if he can find repentance or forgiveness or be held by anyone anymore. Say, he might as well just drive Siegfried into his own stomach. It isn’t as if anyone would care.

“Xander, please.” Kamui whimpers.

He certainly doesn’t care. It is, ultimately, by his will that Xander is suffering in the first place. All he had ever wanted was an exceptionally meagre amount of happiness. A bit of praise. Some attention. Had Kamui visited once during this time, had Ryouma had left him quietly rather than bragging, Xander could have tolerated Kamui’s union with Hinoka. He’d have been happy with that.

 _“Liar. You were going to kill yourself.”_ Marguerite’s tearful voice beckons from the shadows.

Xander steps forwards into what feels like an eternity.

“Don’t look at me like that.” He mumbles.

Kamui starts to wail much in the way he did as a child; with tears streaking gloriously down his pink cheeks and snot bubbling at his nose.

“As if I’m not even human.” Xander lifts Kamui’s chin up with a finger.

“Big brother!” Kamui whines.

“There’s no need for that act anymore, little brother. I have already realized your true nature. But I only have myself to blame for that. I smothered you, Kamui, and so you have never had the chance to learn selflessness or the glory of painful things.” Xander wants to kiss him so badly it hurts. “Don’t worry little Prince, I’ll protect you. Just give me your hand.”

Kamui’s fingers tremble like leaves in a thunderstorm but he extends his arm nonetheless.

“Good boy.” Xander pulls him up and leads him out the room and down the twirled staircases.

Like a shepherd, he’s tending to his ‘sheep’; leading it to ‘salvation’.

Xander is going to eat his lamb right down to the bones. He will crack Kamui’s skull open and suck out the brain like a mosquito gorging itself on blood. Kamui’s gray matter and his blood and the split marrow will sing out memories inside of Xander’s mouth. They will form a new consciousness and so, the two of them will never again be separate. This is how the two of them are going to reconnect. Be understood. Be fulfilled.

“Do you know how much pain I’m in right now?” Xander smiles although he’s screaming.

Once, during a particularly uneventful rainy evening out in the fields, Xander had asked Camilla if he was becoming like his father. After all, they share their hands, nose, eyes, blood and abandonment issues. Camilla said that Xander’s fatherly nature and sorrowful eyes, so cloudy, were proof of his inner, good nature. He realized she was lying even then.

“But it isn’t your fault. This isn’t your fault!” Xander repeats like a broken record hoping that someone, anyone is listening.

Just this one time. Just this one wish.

“You were too juvenile and ignorant. You didn’t realize what you were doing, I know you didn’t! And even if you did, well, it’s my fault more than yours. I should have known.” He laughs. “There isn’t a single creature on this Earth free of sin. Not the insects who devour our livelihoods from the ground up or the crows picking our crops apart. Not a single person who has existed or will exist or is existing right now is sinless! Not even my mother!”

Her radiant smile, merciless and gentle like the sun, collapsed in on itself as she...

“So that is why I am going to lead you to paradise!” Xander throws the doors open..

Kamui retches against the overwhelming smell of decomposing meat that radiates off the marble flooring. Xander grabs him by the wrist and pulls him up.

“I adore you Kamui.” Xander sobs. “You are the light of my life, the last hope for Nohr.”

A medical bed covered in all manner of straps and restraints lies in the centre of the room. It sits on top of a grate crusted in blood and beside a table with a warhammer, a bonesaw and a collection of potions and disinfectants all neatly labelled. Gauze, various other bandages and wrappings and a needle and spool of thread lay on the bed, folded neatly into a parcel complete with a bow.

“What are you doing?” Kamui whimpers.

Xander picks the hammer up.

“This is salvation, little brother. Refuge for your bloodstained body. Quiet days and peace!” He smiles with eyes full of tears. “I am offering you the chance to be a Nohrian once more. To be free from marriage and children and war; from the obligations that will eventually ruin that brilliant soul of your and your marvelously clear eyes. You can rely on anyone you want and they will never be able to reject you or throw you away.”

Kamui takes a step back; wide-eyed but practically sneering.

“Please don’t do this.” He begs. As usual, he is completely missing the point.

“Will you not do this single thing for me, Kamui? Will you not listen to me this one time?” Xander drawls. “Won’t any of you?”

“Oh God!” Kamui flees and Xander pursues.

Although Kamui is far fast, Xander is more familiar with the castle and he can keep this steady, even pace up for eternity if need be. Kamui’s strength, like his beauty, is cheap and fleeting. He only makes it to the stairs before Xander brings the hammer down on the back of his calf. His dainty leg shatters from the force, leaping from the constraints of the milky white flesh in a flood of blood and bone. Kamui falls to the ground screaming.

“It hurts!” Kamui sobs.

“If you had sat still, I would have numbed you. I don’t want you to suffer.” Xander carries him to the bed and straps him down.

“You’re the one that hurt me!”

“Because you wouldn’t just let me finish.” Xander wraps a roll of gauze just above Kamui’s knee.

He tightens it until the flesh above the line is bright red and everything below is a stark white.

“Don’t touch me.” Kamui whines.

Xander slips on his leather gloves and paces the table, examining Kamui’s body and the wound he has left on it.

“It breaks my heart to see such contempt on your face.” Although, to Xander, those tears of resentment and resignation are far more honest than anything Kamui has said his entire life.

The earnesty is refreshing; like waking up after a long dream. Like the sun’s dim light breaking out from behind black storm clouds or lying down after having walked for miles. It feels like Xander has been freed after a month of imprisonment, like being held tenderly after seven years spent in isolation and fear. This is clarity. A conclusion. The severance of Xander’s last attachment to ‘Corrin’.

Xander fills a syringe with a thick, colourless liquid. It moves as slow as the blood in his head.

“Do you know what this is?” He asks.

Kamui looks at him with that same pathetic, pleading gaze.

“It is a drug referred to as the Witches’ Hammer. The Generals use it on themselves and the soldiers to increase their pain tolerance. In same doses, it simply lessens the feelings of pain and we refer to it as the Rock of God instead. But in doses this stronger or even stronger, it instead turns pain into pleasure. Of course, overuse is going to inflict you with permanent algolagnia but that wouldn’t be so bad, would it?” Xander rests his hand on Kamui’s ruined leg. Just above the tie.

It’s cool to the touch.

“Don’t touch me!” Kamui jerks away.

Xander punches him in the stomach.

“I promise you, it only hurts in the beginning.” He grabs Kamui’s arm and injects.

Kamui trembles, gasping. His arms spasm in their restraints as if they were snakes. And he clenches and unclenches his jaw as the pain spreads up from his arms and throughout his entire body.

“It burns! It burns! Big brother!” His tear-stained face is cute too.

And his leg, the exposed muscles cradling his fibula, is a divine treasure. The caved in bone is an angel in disguise and each of the fractures is another eye and each and every one of those eyes is looking at him with a mixture of curiosity, pity and half-concealed distaste. They turn their baleful gaze to his groin, swollen with imminent pleasure, and laugh, laugh hideously.

“You’ve become a little disgusting, haven’t you?” His father’s voice taunts from beyond where Xander’s consciousness can reach. “Just like me.”

Xander nestles the grooves of a saw into Kamui’s supple flesh. It’s as yielding as Xander’s heart.

_“You always were my favourite son, Alexander. The only person who could understand me completely.”_

They caress Kamui’s flesh much in the way a bow fondles a violin.

“Please don’t.” Kamui sobs.

Xander pushes the saw in. Kamui screams, his flesh tearing open with each movement. He wails with sorrow, with fear and with an unforgivable betrayal. His tears are a mourning cry that threaten to burst Xander’s ears. Nonetheless, they are so beautiful that Xander can not help but fall in love with Kamui’s image all over again.

Kamui has the voice of an opera singer! He surpasses even the castrato whose divine voices used to lull their father to sleep! In the image of an idol, Kamui has once more ensnared Xander with his inconceivable purity and dazzling voice. And so, Xander is filled with the urge to sing along with him; to play; to oh so gently, like making love, write a symphony onto Kamui’s flesh and bones.

“Aus tiefer Not schrei' ich zu dir.” Xander sings as he pulls the saw forward. “Herr Gott, erhoer' mein Rufen.”

Blood trickles from the wound to the floor, burying itself in the grout and the crack of the tiles and drying there. It is beautiful, like rubies falling from a maiden’s lips, but there is too much of it. Xander should have used two tourniquets, shouldn’t he have? His father told him once that you are actually supposed to amputate gradually. You start from the foot and go up. At this rate, Kamui will fate before the other leg is finished. How disappointing.

“Dein gnädig' Ohren kehr zu mir, Und meiner Bitt' sie öffnen!” The flesh gives way to bone and Kamui’s pain, to pleasure.

A sheet of cold, thick sweat coats Kamui’s body as his erection strains against the thin fabric of his briefs. He moans, twitching like a cricket struck accidentally with a stone, with every movement of the saw.

“Denn so du willst das sehen an, was Sünd' und Unrecht ist getan, wer kann, Herr, vor dir bleiben?” The bone snaps with a faint crack, taking the rest of the meat and a fair bit of blood with it.

Kamui gasps and tries to force himself to look down but his own body betrays him. His muscles can’t summon the strength to look down at himself. So, yet again, he finds himself completely at Xander’s mercy.

“I can’t feel it anymore…” Kamui whimpers.

Although the dark patch growing on his crotch reveals the truth to Xander.

 _“He sounds like you right now.”_ His father laughs. _“It was so cute when you lied. Even though your left eye always twitched while you were doing it.”_

“Bei dir gilt nichts denn Gnad' und Gunst, Die Sünde zu vergeben; Es ist doch unser Tun umsonst, Auch in dem besten Leben.” Xander saws through the last bits of nerves and fat holding onto Kamui’s leg with one motion. “Vor dir Niemand sich rühmen kann, Des muß dich fürchten jedermann Und deiner Gnade leben.”

He turns away and cleans the blade off with a cloth bloodied by countless acts of brutality. Copper fills the air like miasma, infecting Xander’s body with a strange desire. He ties Kamui’s right leg off with a length of rope. The thigh has already gone gray. It’s the same colour as the ash that cheap wood leaves behind when you burn it or the colour of Laslow’s hair or rain falling somewhere that only Xander can see. Yet Kamui is still conscious. Cognizant. He is staring at the roof as if it is telling him wonderful stories. What kinds of expressions is he seeing in the grains of wood?

“Darum auf Gott will hoffen ich, Auf mein Verdienst nicht bauen; Auf ihn mein Herz soll laßen sich…” Xander takes the saw up again and smiles at Kamui.

Kamui gives a hazy, vague smile back. His full lips, pink as the dew dripping off a rose petal, part -- forming an expression of absolute and total devotion.

“It feels good.” Kamui slurs.

“Und seiner Güte trauen, Die mir zusagt sein wertes Wort, Das ist mein Trost und treuer Hort.” Xander traces the swollen line separating cloth from flesh with his ring finger. It throbs beneath his touch, beating in time with Kamui’s heart. “Des will ich allzeit harren.”

“What are you singing?” Kamui laughs. “Is it something beautiful?”

“It’s a hymn for you. Psalm 130.” This is the first time in a long time that they’ve spoken so affectionately.

Even back when Xander and Ryouma had pretended to hold brotherly affection for one another, Kamui was too busy to speak to Xander. The few times he did, the conversation always seemed to drift back to Hinoka. It seems a little silly to fault him for that now. Xander did the same thing around his age with Tyger, after all. He wanted to be touched so badly. Anyway that old fucker wanted. Because it was better than being lonely, although the wounds still hurt.

Back when Xander and Ryouma had pretended to hold brotherly affection for one another, Kamui was still too busy to speak to Xander. When he did, the few times he did, the conversation always seemed to drift back to Hinoka anyway. It seems a little silly to fault him for that now. Xander did the same thing at his age with Tyger, after all. He wanted to be held so badly. Any way that fucker wanted. It was better than being lonely. That’s basically all there is to it.

“Don’t stop. For God’s sake, don’t stop!” Kamui whines.

“Und ob es währt bis in die Nacht Und wieder an den Morgen,” Xander grinds the saw against Kamui’s leg, drawing out another long, stuttering moan.

His hands dance on Kamui’s flesh as it falls away. Each stroke of the saw tears another piece of Kamui away, thrusting the two of them deeper and deeper into this agonizing pleasure. This is their mating dance, my friends. Kamui grinning, smiling and breaking and Xander singing his heart out with more joy and ambition than he has held inside of himself in all of his years of living.

“Doch soll mein Herz an Gottes Macht verzweifeln nicht noch sorgen.” His father wanted to be an opera singer once.

He would tell Xander this fantasy daily when his wife was alive. He wanted to be surrounded by lovers and fans, adoring men and women, who loved his voice so much they would die for it. He wanted a different lover every night. To be worshipped. Xander did not, does not and never will share such visions of idolism but he has nonetheless inherited his father’s marvelously powerful voice. If he had a little more will, a little more talent, he could have run off to be a choir boy like one of nigh-forgotten childhood friends did. Of course, he would have most likely ended up with a man just like his father anyway.

Kamui’s left leg snaps off in Xander’s hands and he faints. Despite his anemia, he sure did last a while. Xander rubs an elixir on both stumps and begins to stitch them up with the still dangling skin.

“So thu' Yizrael rechter Art, Der aus dem Geist erzeuget ward, Und seines Gott's erharre.”

Meat submits before Xander’s touch and the draught until all that remains of Kamui’s legs are a pair of smooth, gray stumps. It almost feels as if this was how Kamui was meant to be. Perhaps him being born whole was a cosmic mistake. Perhaps Xander was meant to take care of him all his life and it was only that pouting, miserable face of his that allowed him to escape that fate thus far.

Or, more likely, Xander is going fucking insane.

“Ob bei uns ist der Sünden viel, bei Gott ist viel mehr Gnade.” His voice is barely above a whisper now but that’s all the two of them need.

He climbs onto the table and slides Kamui’s fractured leg out from the restraints. It looks so much frailer than it did just ten minutes ago. The skin and muscle is porcelain and the bone is ivory and everything between the two is red geode. Xander strokes the hole between the ankle and the knee with a finger. It’s still warm. Something slippery awakens and rises inside of him, pushing Xander to thrust his fingers in and out of the wound though they scrape bone more often than not.

“Sein' Hand zu helfen hat kein Ziel, Wie groß auch sei der Schade.” Xander flits his tongue in and out of the hole, licking the bone, the blood and his own fingers.

It’s remarkably sweet. Not like a cake or ice cream but rather, like a half-rotten orange or a pear that’s been left out in the sun too long. Isn’t that so like Kamui? So much better than everyone else that his body has to taste better too?

Xander buries his face into the leg and pulls his cock from his tights. Without even removing his gloves, he starts to slide his fingers over it as he whispers his hymn inside of the meat. The flesh returns pleasure onto him; filling his mouth with a stray burst of blood and plasma.

“Er ist allein der gute Hirt, Der Yizrael erlösen wird Aus seinen Sünden allen.” He mumbles.

Xander jerks off in time to an imaginary orchestra. He holds his breath as he holds his notes and as his voice falls and the tempo slows, his fingers come to a gradual stop. And he keeps going until the blood inside of has been exhausted and so to his desire. The rising action of the cellos plays along to his climax and the singer’s piercing scream, like a valkyrie, signifies his end. Semen mixes with blood, seeping so thoroughly into the table that there is certainly no way he will be able to sanitize. He’ll keep it anyway; as a testament to his feelings and Kamui’s transformation.

Xander wipes the semen off his thighs and cock with a rag and laces his tights back up. Kamui moans lightly in his sleep. He looks a little like a child right now, doesn’t he? A hatchling that has fallen out of the nest. Xander has this almost burning urge to take care of him once more. To cook for him, clean after him, to read him stories like he did when his palms were clean and his face unlined. That was the time where Xander was happiest. When he had only his father and siblings to be concerned about. At least he had someone to rely on and someone to rely on back then. At least he had someone to take his mind off his mother’s death and all of those other unpleasant things that come with love and war.

Isn’t it funny how his father picked Kamui up during that? Like a man buying his son a dog as a replacement for a lost friend or sibling. Kamui’s bright-eyed stare is not unlike that of a puppy’s, you know. Perhaps that was the true intention all along. I mean, his father could have simply hidden Kamui in the army or kept him as a personal toy. So perhaps this was just a way to...

Xander picks Kamui up like one would an infant and carries him up towards Ryouma’s room. He takes the stairs two steps at a time, suddenly violated with an anxiety more forceful than his father’s death. Xander pushes the door open and sets Kamui down on the bed. His skin has turned a glistening iridescent in the false lights - sparkling like crystals of ice. Xander mops the sweat off his cheek with a sleeve.

“Ryouma, Kamui wants to see you.” He says so as to not wake Kamui up.

He has never seen Kamui sleep like this before. Not even when they were boys. Kamui would thrash and bite things that weren’t there and would scream instead. Scream so loudly that it would wake the entire damn fortress. Most likely, he was having flashbacks of Emperor Sumeragi’s death but Xander felt better if he pretended his brother was being haunted instead. He would walk the perimeter with Siegfried and chant some meaningless words his mother taught him. Kamui would sleep for only a few hours following that and the screaming would start again. So Xander gave up.

“Ryouma?” Xander slowly stands up.

There is no reply beyond Kamui’s faint moans and his own shallow breathing.

“Ryouma!” Xander pushes past the gossamer curtains separating the living area from the bedroom.

The room has been torn to pieces. Clothing, various papers and torn canvas has been scattered about like salt at a windowsill. Ryouma’s yukata lays crumpled up on the ground, covered in dried blood. The silk sheets and comforter are heaped beside it but there is still an imprint of Ryouma, the general shape of his body curled up into a ball, embedded on the mattress. It’s only a little warm but there is an intimate aura about it.

“Please come out, Ryouma. I promise you that I have done nothing terrible to your brother. Nor do I have any intentions of doing so.” Xander looks under the bed.

There isn’t so much as a hair down there. Xander chokes back a scream and move to the bathroom. As soon as he enters, he realizes that Ryouma can’t possibly be in it. The curtain is so thin that he would be able to see Ryouma through it. But Xander checks anyway. He can’t have been abandoned again, right? Ryouma wouldn’t do that. Even if they fight… the two of them love each other. Ryouma said so. Once. In a dream of paradise.

“Ryouma, I’m not angry anymore. Please don’t be scared. I won’t hurt you anymore, Ryouma” Xander throws open the shower curtain.

Ryouma isn’t there. There was no chance of him being there. Yet, Xander still coughs up a sob as he finds only a pool of blood settled at the drain and the hideously sweet smell of putrefied pork that seems to be coming out from the very pipes.

 _“Don’t worry Xander. Daddy still loves you.”_ Xander’s reflection laughs with a twisted face.

It dances in the mirror, mouthing back every thought to him.

“Ryouma!” Xander screams. “Ryouma please! I need you! Help me, please!”

He checks the cabinets under the sink and the wardrobe in Ryouma’s room. He checks under the bed, the sofa, the tablecloth. In the cell hidden behind the walls.

“Ryouma, Ryouma, Ryouma!” His name feels so good in his mouth, even when he’s screaming it. It feels like how sweat tastes. “Are you so selfish that you’ll abandon Kamui like this! Force him to suffer for the sake of your fucking tantrums! Don’t you care about him at all?”

Xander slams his head against the brick wall.

“Don’t you care about anyone!”

Xander slams into it again. And again. And again and again and again. He does it until the stone has been cracked and the wall has crumbled and his head is slick and dizzy with blood and then he does it once more for good measure.

“God, you’re pathetic.” Jakob laughs.

Xander turns to him.

“Did you really think he would stay and play happy families after you tore off his hand? After you violated his body and soul? After you perverted and inverted and corrupted his very sense of being?” He laughs again. “That must be Garon’s blood in y--”

Xander bounces the brick off his head. Jakob stumbles back and falls onto his ass, staring up at Xander with a completely dumbfounded expression. It’s like he hasn’t quite figured out what’s going on yet. Like he doesn’t realize what he’s done wrong. Like he doesn’t want to die but he can’t understand exactly where the threat is coming from. There is this kind of throbbing, burning need to smash that smug expression of Jakob’s in; to gouge out his mocking eyes and tear out the tongue that has done nothing but spit bile. Xander can only heal his heart like this.

He picks up a chunk of wall and smashes it against Jakob’s chest. Jakob screams and clutches his chest as blood soaks into his shirt, dying the white an unremarkable crimson.

“Why is it that you treat everyone like garbage, Jakob? Is it because of your own insecurities? Or does it just turn you on?” Xander grabs Jakob by the chin.

“Glass houses, my King. Glass houses.”

Xander smashes Jakob’s nose in with the chunk. It bends at a nearly acute angle from the first hit. He keeps going anyway; hitting it until the angle is so unnatural that no amount of cosmetic magic can right it. Then Xander hits it again for the sake of hitting.

Blood and snot drips from it and runs off Jakob’s lips and onto the ground.

“You disappoint me!” Blood and snot drip from Jakob’s nose and run off Jakob’s lips and onto the ground.

But he’s still smirking in-between choking on his own blood. Xander throws him onto the ground.

“Where did he go, Jakob?” Xander asks.

He is calmer than ever before. Calmer than the gentle waves of that black sea and the distant white sands, calmer than the world beyond his dreams. It feels, a little bit, like he’s floating.

“I’ll die before I tell you that, you know.” Jakob twists in pain.

Xander kicks him in the ribs.

“So you will.”

***

There are three very important discoveries that Ryouma has made this hour. One; some Nohrian clocks chime or scream when an hour has passed. Others chime once for every hour that has passed during the day. The last scream was ten minutes ago and lasted for five chimes. Judging by the pale light of the sun that passes through one of the few uncovered windows, it is five in the evening. Although, he isn’t sure if he really gets how Nohrian weather works. Two; most of the guards on the premises are either outside protecting the wall or specific rooms inside as he has not seen many patrols. When he does see one, they often consist of three men at most. Three; he can hear Xander screaming from the floor above so he has certainly been caught by now. He’ll have to leave Takumi behind along with his current hiding spot. He’d only slow them both down anyway.

Before you judge him, consider this: Ryouma is unarmed. Literally and figuratively. Although the patrols are relatively light, he doubts he could handle more than one person by himself. How can he handle Takumi and himself like this? How can he even handle himself? He could steal a weapon. Ah, but even if he does, he’s down an arm and can not attack and guard. Furthermore, most Nohrian weapons would be two handed on him. So there is almost certainly no way he could outfight even a single armoured guard. No, there must be an outcome where he gets out. This outcome is to stun and run and it hinges on what kind of men Xander has on patrol. Outlaws? Mercenary? Maids and butlers? Easily stunable. Knights? Cavaliers? Fighters? He will be recaptured before the moon rises. Ah, if only he could remember the faces or the classes of the men and the girl that violated him. All he can remember from that time is that Xander said they worked in the castle and that none of them were particularly heavy. In that case, perhaps the heavier guards are put on special rooms while the lighter ones patrol.

Ryouma’s analysis is interrupted by a man with gray hair and lines around his mouth and eyes throwing open the doors to the cabinet. He stares at Ryouma with tired eyes and a cold malice. Without either softening his harsh gaze or blinking, he raises the point of his broadsword to Ryouma’s face.

“Get out.” The man says it calmly and with a stern expression; as if he has been rehearsing it in his head all this time.

Ryouma glances to the left. He glances to the right. Other than himself and this old man, there isn’t anyone else around. There aren’t even footsteps.

“The more you make him wait, the worse your punishment is going to get you know.” The man says.

“I will die before I allow him to humiliate me any further.” Ryouma smiles.

He slaps the blunt of the sword into the cabinet and kicks the old fool in the gut. Disarmed. Ryouma takes off running.

There is now another series of things to consider. Ryouma does not understand the layout of this place. He knows that he is now on the third floor and that the first floor holds both exits. He also knows that the main staircase is off limits which is mostly a moot point because this place is fucking covered in staircases. What he does not know is where these staircases are located. Once he reaches the second floor, theoretically he can jump from the window just fine but were he to leap down from this story, he will most likely break one or both ankles. Then where would he be?

The conclusion: Taking at least one staircase is something of an inevitability.

Ryouma ducks into a hallway. He read once that Nohrians like to use towards in their architecture because it is easier to defend with the right hand and conversely, harder to attack with the right. In theory, all the staircases should be in towers, right? Yet that doesn’t seem to be the case. In front of Ryouma there is a staircase going up but nothing correspondingly going down. But certainly, there’s no way that only one staircase lets you go both up and down. There has to be another stairwell on this floor. So Ryouma runs right past and keeps on running until the hallway terminates. A dead end. Of course. And he can feel a presence behind him as well.

“Halt!” A man’s voice calls out.

Ah, this isn’t a dead end after all. What a relief! Ryouma tosses his sword behind him and throws himself through the doorway and onto the balcony. There is another balcony beneath this one and isn’t that almost as good as stairs? It will get him there all the same. And if here were to miss and snap his neck, by the Gods, then it is still a victory. It is better to be dead than alive and with Xander. Ryouma has been living in filth and misery, getting his mind and body violated unrelentingly by a man so broken that hasn’t yet realized that there is nothing left to fight for. This is Hell to him; starving in the absence of intellectual stimulation. It’s painful. Twisted. Terribly warped.

And so without any hesitation, before Ryouma can even see who is pursuing him, he jumps off the balcony.

“Don’t!” The guard cries out.

That useless man would probably die doing such a thing and the thought makes Ryouma want to live all the more. As he falls, he grabs onto the edge of the balcony beneath this one with all of his might. With this might, he starts to force himself up. A foot finds some hard rock not too far upwards and like that, he climbs. With the determination born from a youth spent without tenderness, he cimbs. Although it is only when he is on it that he realizes his plan has been a mistake from the start.

You see, the main defensive feature of Castle Krackenburg is neither the armoured and armed guards or the personal army. It is not even the towers or the structure that seems to change day by day. No, it is far more simple than any of that. It is simply a wall; taller and wider than anything that Ryouma has laid eyes on before. So it isn’t a matter of jumping down, breaking an ankle and hobbling away. It isn’t about fighting his way out either or running or nay number of other glorious things his father might be proud of him for doing. It is about getting lucky.

“He jumped onto the second story!” The guard’s voice is muffled by the distance but Ryouma hears it clearer than anything. “Go and get him!”

Ryouma looks down. There is no balcony for the first story. Why would there be?

He starts to run only to be grabbed by the slender hand of a woman. Her delicate fingers squeeze on his left wrist with enough force that the bones feel as if they are about to break. If that’s the case, he might as well curl up his useless body and throw it away. Women aren’t supposed to be stronger than him.

“Do you want to die?” She asks.

“Don’t touch me.” Ryouma tries to pull his wrist away but her grip only gets tighter.

It’s bursting. Something deep inside of Ryouma, it’s bursting.

“It will only hurt in the beginning.” She says with such a genuinity about it that Ryouma shudders.

Her words are nothing more than a manifestation of pity. They hold the same expression in them that was on his father’s face when his most beloved samurai came back missing both arms. The samurai, unforgivably beautiful with hair as white as snow and lips that glistened like dew on rose petals, knelt so deeply that he could not get up on his own. He was offering up his very soul.

“You are dismissed.” His father said without another word.

Those three words rendered every contribution that samurai had previously made null; as if he had been born invalid rather than made. Yet, the samurai still did not say a word of complaint. He lay where he was and quietly wept.

That’s the kind of look this girl has.

“It’s painful.” Ryouma mumbles. “I don’t want to live in such a painful world.”

He averts his eyes because he knows if she looks too deeply, she’ll realize his half born lie. She raises her sword, in spite of such a suspicious gesture, anyway.

“On your knees, lad.” She says.

He wonders exactly how important the person his soldiers killed was to her. They can’t have been that important since she’s doing this for him and she seems intimately aware that living with Xander is worse than death. Or maybe she just has a woman’s heart after all.

Ryouma gets down on his knees and presents his neck to her. She loosens her grip on his wrist.

“I’ll have the remains sent to your living rela--” He strikes up between her legs with two fingers.

She drops to the ground screaming and howling, barking even; like a mother wolf whose pups were suddenly and violently torn from her. It is music to Ryouma’s ears. Truly, a fitting punishment for anyone that would dare look down on him.

“Sorry but I have no intentions on dying.” He laughs.

She pitifully reaches out to grab onto his ankle. Ryouma stops on her trembling fingers, grinding them against the thick woolen carpet with his heel. Oh, he’s surely broken a couple.

“Damn…” She stutters out before fainting from the pain of it all.

“What an ambitious maiden.” He remarks with a chuckle.

Nohrian women really are the best. So determined. So difficult to… He shouldn’t think like that. It isn’t really healthy, you know? All it does, the thick and twisted sadistic edge that runs through his blood like a cancer, is force him to defile and debase himself and shame his family. Even in a situation as tense and as serious as this, he can not manage to control his desires.

Ryouma falls to his knees and starts to masturbate himself through the fine linen of his fundoshi. Surely, surely, this is at least partially Xander’s fault. It was the drug that has influenced Ryouma’s own instincts and further twisted them, you see? He isn’t dirty. At least, not in the way Xander is. Besides that, this isn’t really masturbation. He is just touching himself a little. Ryouma pushes the fabric away and exposes his crotch to the air. The cold is a relief, hardening it immediately to the point where precum is leaking out. Ryouma runs his fingers down the shaft with a shudder. It’s never felt this good before.

He stumbles up and takes the girl’s short sword. There is a dreamlike desire to pierce her body straight through but that would only result in more pain being piled upon him, wouldn’t it? What an immoral thought. It isn’t her fault for being born into this world. And she must be so afraid… Ryouma rubs his cock against the carpet, humping it like a goddamned dog. He can see his father’s sneering face in the distance.

“It isn’t my fault.” Ryouma mumbles. “He’s changed something in me.”

He takes the sword and runs it across his thigh, opening a wound no deeper than a paper cut.

“Yes, he’s changed something.” Ryouma laughs.

He repeats the motion on the other thigh and then down his knee; across his ankle; diagonally on his belly. Ryouma lays down on his back and pushes the handle of the sword inside himself. It is thinner than he would like but the ribbing is amazing. He pushes it in until the pain outweighs the pleasure and starts to thrust. At first, he takes it with a slow, almost loving pace but soon enough, his masochism outweighs any sense of self love. Ryouma grabs the blade and starts hammering it into himself. He drills into his prostate with a long groan. In the back of his mind, he sees Xander. His soft chest and toned body, as if it were sculpted from marble, have entered Ryouma’s consciousness and will not leave. It would be so lovely to grab Xander by that rat’s nest he calls hair and force him onto his cock. Those pale soft lips, much like the samurai that Ryouma still sees in his dreams, would be so lovely split. And that white skin would be covered in bruises that blossom on it like camellia. Xander’s very lungs would move the way Ryouma wanted as Xander choked on his shaft.

Ryouma orgasms and readjusts his fundoshi. It feels a little filthy. Like drinking water that someone has died in. But he was thirsty, you know? So, by the Gods, make an exception for once.

“Did that feel good?” Someone chuckles from behind him.

Ryouma whips around. Prince Leonard smiles at him.

“I’m sorry but I couldn’t he but watch.” He croons. “You really do have an amazing body, Prince Byakuya. Each and every muscle and curve has been dented with the utmost perfection so that your figure is akin to that of an iron statue.”

The Prince takes a step forwards, a ball of dark flame gathered up in his gauntlet.

“I wonder, just like that statue, if I could melt you down into something useful and practical.”

“Use is in the eye of the user.” Ryouma retorts, taking a step back.

Leonard takes another to match him. A dark man, much older and taller than Leo, flanks him.

“Nevermind it. Let’s play tag instead.” Leo says. “If I catch you, I will give you right back to Xander and you’re to never try another escape again. If I don’t, you’re free to go.”

“My Lord, you can not trust him.” The man mutters.

“Don’t worry Niles, I’ll make him sign a contract with his blood.” Leo smiles.

Ryouma takes a step backwards. So slowly that only the most observant could notice. In fact, he himself does not realize he’s done it. It was an impulse, much like yanking your hand away from a hot stove.

“Go on then. Run.” Leo smiles.

And Ryouma does.

***

Xander traces the edges of the stationary cabinet. This wooden box, barely two feet wide and two feet deep, hardly seems able to fit a small child much less Ryouma. Xander’s own shoulders are two feet wide themselves, at least, and Ryouma is slightly broader than him. What shape must he have contorted into to fit then? How could he possibly manage to squeeze in nearly six feet of tight muscles and soft, fatty deposits in there? What other positions could Ryouma fold into? Could he, in the image of Xander’s Madonna who whirls through the air as if he’s flying, twisted and turn while suspended in the air?

That immoral, irrational desire shifts into something passionate indeed. Something… indescribable. Constantly changing. Suddenly, Xander doesn’t feel angry anymore.

“Did you see where he went, Warrant Officer?” Xander asks.

He feels as light as a feather; as if he’s high.

“No Sir. I was knocked unconscious as soon as my head hit the wall. However, when I woke up I could hear the soldiers beneath me talking about how he leapt from the balcony. So I think you’ll either find him or the second or ground floor or as a smear on the grass.”

Ryouma does have feelings for him. So what if they are born of anger or repulsion of hatred? They are feelings all the same. And by God, Xander wants to be felt.

_“I am the only one that will not abandon you. You have known this since you were a child.” His father sighs; as if speaking to a child. “And look where that doubt has gotten you. Look where your sensitive heart and skin and your perverted sexuality have gotten you. If I were still alive, if I were with you right now, Ryouma would never have run away and you’d have no reason to feel lonely anymore.”_

As if he didn’t abandon Xander too! He locked him away in that rotting room and let Xander’s mind waste and his body collapse! But what else can Xander expect? Everyone, everything abandons him. Tyger, Marquerite, his brothers and sisters, his mother! Even Laslow abandoned him! If Ryouma goes then Xander really won’t have anyone else.

“Sir, are you alright?” The officer asks. “You’re bleeding.”

“I’m fine.” Xander smiles.

And you know what? It doesn’t look broken at all.

“For now, focus on recapturing High Prince Ryouma. Tell the other units that they are to maintain the utmost caution in apprehending him. And have a squad search this floor in case Byakuya was hiding all along. All outside units should be alerted as well.”

“Yes Sir.” The officer salutes him.

Xander does not want to disappoint that little tin soldier nor does he want that man’s look of admiration to fade. So, although he is imploding with hysteria, he does not scream. He does not make a scene. Instead he slowly, as if he were crawling on his hands and knees, makes his way towards the main staircase and down the stairs one at a time.

Ryouma. Ryouma. Ryouma.

That is what keeps drilling through his head like a record on a repeat. And like that record, Xander is incapable of thinking or doing anything else than what he is thinking and doing right now.

The callouses on Ryouma’s hands, his rose tinted lips and the tan skin and pale scars that mar it wear away at Xander’s sensibilities. They rip chunks from Xander’s ego; swallowing without chewing like a pelican or a large snake. But that’s alright, it’s fine. There is nothing, nothing at all wrong with that.

For that is the very definition of love.

Love is suffocation and sepsis and toxic shock and devouring. Like a degenerative disease, it doesn’t spare a single part of the human. His mother who had never succumb to anything nor believed in anything she could not see like ‘heaven’ or ‘fate’ had also fallen prey to that loving sickness.

Xander takes the last of the stairs in one stride and paces down the central hallway. It is impossible for Ryouma to get to the first floor without coming here first. There is no balcony for him to climb down; no railing to abuse. All that he can do is run with all his might. Unless he has somehow managed to find the hidden tunnels scattered throughout the castle. If anyone can find them, it’s Ryouma.

So, regretting it all the while, Xander begins to return to the mentality he had in his youth. Ryouma is so similar to him, with the divide growing thinner with every passing morning, that he will surely tread where Xander has treaded and think what Xander had thought.

Amidst a crushing feeling of despair, Xander recalls every facet of that tear soaked night.

It was raining. Yes, despite being the dead of winter, it was raining. The pitter patter of raindrops thumping against the windows and the sound of trees being shaken about was audible from the point where he stands now. He could feel the bitter cold crawling up his spine along with some unknowable emotion. It might have been dread but it could have just as easily been relief.

His mother died in the rain, you know. So did countless brothers and sisters whose names and faces are forever marked on Xander’s memory. A childhood lover and a platoon of soldiers were also swept up in the rain. And Laslow… In a light autumn rain, Laslow left off to a world where Xander could not follow. That seemed, seems, to be a running theme in his life. But you know, despite the anxiety that was growing inside of him at the time and the bitter, bloodied taste in his motuh, Xander was happy that it was raining that day. He truly, deeply loved the rain. It so kindly swept all of his troubles away.

The howling outside the window had sounded exactly like his father screaming his name. Although Xander knew at the time that he was imagining it, it didn’t make it any less frightening. His feet felt as heavy as stones cast into a lake. They sunk and stuck to the ground, not allowing the slightest bit of movement. It was then, through all that fear, that Xander finally came to understand his life and the reason for his existence.

He was born so his father wouldn’t abandon his mother. Or something like that, anyway. His father would die before he left Xander alone because the boy wore his mother’s face. So even if the old man grew tired or bored, he would chase Xander to the ends of the earth. He would do that simply to say that he has him and that he has his wife who tried her best to abandon him. If/when Xander is caught, he will be brutalized in the most horrible ways possible. He needs to come to terms with that.

Those four things and barely anything else formed the cornerstone of Xander’s late teens and early twenties. He knew he could rely on Garon’s mood above all else. Retainers die and lovers leave but his father’s cold gaze and these truths would never fail him.

It was comforting, in a way.

With the nature of this reality engraved unto his mind, Xander fled. His frail, younger self discarded any notion of auxiliary stairs for he was far too cowardly at the time. No, instead, he dropped himself from the balcony to the second floor; taking all the bruises and cuts that came with that. He had a plan, you see, although it never came to bear fruit. He was going to take the dumbwaiter to the first floor from the second and from there, he would take the tunnels leading to the duchy of Volga. He would join a militia there and be as free as someone like him possibly could. In reality, he dropped off the balcony and immediately fainted. The rest was a silly little dream of his.

Ryouma, as he is now, knows nothing of those tunnels or Volga or the dumbwaiter. He doesn’t really know how it feels to be fearing for your future all your life. He had a mother who loved him dearly and siblings who lived. So there is certainly no way he will be able to leave this place alive. Understanding that at long last, Xander slows down to a light jog. His troubles and worries melt away like fat from a goose and all that is left is a shocking feeling of tranquility.

Xander heads back on his way, smiling to himself like he knows a secret no one else does. There, at the end of the hallway, yet another realization occurs. In the carpets and in the air hangs a smell that Xander knows all too well; the reek of drying semen and blood. Xander looks down at the pool and laughs so hard it feels as if he might be crying.

So this, this is what Ryouma is deep down. Xander doesn’t know what to say. So he doesn’t say anything at all. He lets his feelings carry on the wind.

***

Ryouma realizes far too late that he can no longer keep going down. Leo is just a few yards away. His bootsteps, the muffled thudding and clanking of iron that bounces off the walls and carpeted flooring, burn Ryouma’s ears. The clacking of heels somewhere off in the distance kill his nerves. There lies Scylla, here lies Charybdis. Counting down the seconds, Ryouma flees upwards to the main staircase that eluded him before. This is not a mistake nor is it cowardice. In Ryouma’s tactical mind, he has already painted a portrait of Leo’s personality and motivations and has made some conclusions. The first is that the guards will not follow him any longer. They will not want to interrupt their prince’s grand chase. The second, following the first, is that there is certainly no way Ryouma will find himself boxed in. That would defeat the purpose of the game. His father taught him that fourteen years ago.

To cheat is to stain one’s honour and the honour of your ancestors. The pleasure is in fighting, not killing. Sex and war are the two most thrilling and loving things a man can do and the two are inseparably entwined. This is what his father said and since he said it, they became divine truths. Ryouma whispers a prayer to them as the timer inside of his mind winds down. He doesn’t feel concerned or troubled in the slightest anymore. Those truths, the pathologies of the two princes and his body, crafted from steel and electric currents, will carry him and his father’s words to victory.

There is no other outcome.

Ryouma takes the stairs two at a time, returning to the dreaded third floor. He will keep going from here until he reaches the top and then he will simply slip back down. Like a dog chasing its tail, Prince Leonard will follow. This is how Ryouma is going to escape and it is how he has lived his life. Unless of course, the two split up.

That is not unthinkable to Ryouma. Dog and master came as a pair for a reason and are pursuing as a pair for the same reason. Perhaps it is simple to mimic a rabbit hunt but perhaps they intend to cut him off instead. In that case, taking a straightforward route is foolishness. He should stall, distract, injure and hide instead. His father would be disappointed. But honour is meaningless in the face of death. That is the fourth divine truth; instilled in him by his most honourable father being shot dead in the middle of the night. Ryouma stood there, unable to look away. He stared into the holes, wide enough that he could see the Nohrian ambush through his father’s chest, as the reality of the world slowly started to enclose on him.

 _“Live pragmatically or die like me.”_ The holes whistled in a mockery of his father’s voice.

Three minutes have passed. As the last second falls away, the chiming of clocks throughout the building drown out both Ryouma’s footsteps and the inevitably incoming ones. Ryouma reaches the seventh floor under the cover of that noise. He ducks into a hallway. There, dozens of rooms are lined up against the walls. Some are locked, some are chained, some are barred but all of them lead to places Ryouma does not know. So he tries them all with the sort of desperation befitting a starving peasant more than the Emperor’s son.

“You stain my honour.” His father used to spit that petty insult at him.

Ryouma feels like he is validating it. He could take Leo’s servant effortlessly and the prince himself with little more trouble. But Ryouma can not seem to find the strength in his heart to fight. It is not because he thinks that he will lose, he’ll never lose, and it certainly isn’t because he is afraid. It is simply that if he loses, somehow, he will go back to that rotting room. It is unbearable. Any chance he might lose is equally unbearable. A world where he falters or is taken off guard or where his victory is simply cheated from him is a world he can no longer live in. So please, forgive him o’ honourable father. He needs to be cowardly this one time.

It isn’t his fault, though. Nothing that has happened in this place is his fault. Xander has besmirched his honour and the honour of the Byakuya line through countless humiliations. Anything that Ryouma does from here on out is his fault. These fantasies that rush through Ryouma’s mind too, and the glory of war and the pleasure of suffering and causing suffering, are Xander’s fault too. There is nothing the man will not try to taint.

 _“Live pragmatically.”_ Says the hole in the wall.

 _“Live honourably.”_ Say his memories and the love he had for his father.

 _“Live glamorously.”_ Says his body that is about to collapse.

By the Gods, he’s going insane.

Ryouma pushes open a slightly ajar door and clicks it closed behind him. By the way of the four divine truths and the personality that Leo has shown thus far, haughty and vain like a cat, is victory is all but assured. He and his servant will split off searching for him and try to corner him. This is certain. But you know, now that he thinks on it, is that really how things will go? Prince Leonard is a pragmatic young man and there is no guarantee he intends to play fair. Indeed, this could all be just another way to toy with Ryouma.

He won’t allow Leo to humiliate him like that!

Ryouma begins to search through the room. Judging by the cot and the uniform hanging off the door, this is a guard’s dormitory. It is sparsely decorated with only a chest of drawers and a desk. Ryouma searches through the drawers, throwing clothes this way and that. He passes over a comb, a toothbrush, a locket sharpened to a point and a blunt razor before finally landing on a fountain pen. The tip is as sharp as a blade and Ryouma finds that he can almost effortlessly hide it in his palm.

He steps away from the drawers and presses his ear to the door. It sounds as if someone is screaming his name on one of the floors above but like the sound of his father’s mind and the rain, it is just another trick of his distorted mind.

Instinctively, Ryouma’s hand moves back down to his crotch. The drugs haven’t worn off, you see. And not everything that Xander said was a lie. Although Ryouma does not, can not admit it, he knows that all that Xander said is true. More than tenderness, more than affection, more than pure love; destroying, tearing people down, fighting and killing are acts that scream to his soul. Ryouma would like nothing more than to heap up those desires and his resentment and fear onto Xander.

That sort of behaviour is unacceptable for a ‘hero’ such as himself. His ancestors would not forgive him nor would Hinoka or Sakura. They’re still waiting for him, surely, surely, surely! And yet, seeing Xander’s face twisted in agony would almost be worth it. At the very least, he wants to see the depths of pain that will flash over Xander’s face as he realizes that he’s been abandoned again. Will the princeling be suffocated with tears? Will he scream and yell until his voice is hoarse and beat at the walls until his knuckles are red and blue?

The image of his pale face stained with tears and rage is Ryouma’s idol; beyond eroticism. It grips Ryouma’s soul in a blackened vice. Although he wants to return to morality and although he wants to please his sisters and the dainty Mikoto who believed in him so, he can not break free of his desires. To wring Xander’s throat, to watch him slice open his own wrists, to destroy what remains of the Xander’s psyche that has been so battered and bloodied and ruined all before meeting him… Ah well, that would be a pleasure to end all pleasures.

In Ryouma’s dreams, Xander is all he can think about. He consumes his thoughts so that if Ryouma is not careful, he might be swallowed up.

Footsteps pass outside of the door; thick heels hammer so hard against the carpet that it sounds as if someone is walking over hardwood. Ryouma backs away from the door and slows his breathing. Yes, the whistle of a nose is distinctive but the inhales and exhales of a peaceful man are just as much so. He covers his mouth with the stump of his left hand and holds fast to the fountain pen with the right. As soon as Prince Leonard opens this door, he will lose an eye. This is fair.

Leo walks up and down the hallway. He doesn’t jiggle any handles much less open any doors. He doesn’t say a word. But he doesn’t leave either. He simply walks. Pitter patter, pitter patter, the same sound as heavy rain against a window or the wind whipping a storm around. The noise is excruciating. It drives a spike of impatience through Ryouma. A non-zero percentage of him would like nothing more than to burst out from behind this door and stab the little devil to death. That is what his father would do. Nay, it is what anyone would do in his situation.

Somebody whistles.

A miracle shines down on the golden son of Hoshido. Leo opens a door. He starts on the other side of the hallway and starts to make his way down every door on the row. Keys jangle on their keychain as the boy turns every lock and opens every door. The next three doors are opened and closed with an agonizing slowness. Ryouma thumbs over the smooth, metal tip of the pen. It catches in his skin and before he realizes, he’s tore a hole the size of a needle’s tip in his thumb. Blood falls one bead at a time before trickling out like a small river. Although this isn’t Prince Leonard’s fault at all, Ryouma feels inclined to blame him. It strengthens his resolve even though it’s so stupid. Perhaps because it’s so stupid. Leo deserve worse than losing an eye anyway for what he has done to Ryouma and to Takumi. Perhaps an experience like this will help him become an honourable man.

For honour is born from pain.

The door locks. Yes, the door locks. It clicks shut and locks before Ryouma even realizes what he’s done.

There is a moment of silence. Then, moving slower than the blood rolling down Ryouma’s thumb, Leo unlocks the door. They stare at one another with unblinking eyes. Leo looks down at him in something that is not quite horror but not far off it and Ryouma stares up at him with what must be the same.

“Wh--?” Ryouma stabs Leo in the eye.

Leo drops to the ground shrieking as he tries to yank the blade out.

Ryouma runs. He makes it no farther than the fifth step before he is face to face with the foreigner. The man stands just slightly taller than him and shoulders so broad that a less learned Hoshidan could mistake him for a full-blooded Nohrian. It is the tan and the tan alone that gives it away. Ryouma would have thought a slave would empathize with his plight.

“I stabbed him in the eye. If you don’t get to it soon, he’ll lose it you know.” Ryouma speaks calmly whilst wearing the face of a disturbed man.

Xander’s been good for something at least.

“Lord Leo!” The dog screams.

“Don’t get distracted!” Leo barks back.

Ah, the bond between master and slave is a beautiful one indeed.

“At least you two will match.” Ryouma remarks.

Leo’s servant draws a small knife and slashes at Ryouma. Ryouma steps back to the third step. He wishes he had kept that pen or at the very least, that locket. It was definitely some kind of primitive shank and god knows it would have left a nasty scar.

Ryouma steps back down to the fourth stair and ducks under the next slash. He punches the servant in the gut and tries to take him down with him. But those Nohrians have always been hardy bastards. Ryouma forces him down a step but nothing more than that and at the same time, he is being held fast. The next slice comes on his good hand and tears it open. Blood flows in waves like the tides, splattering the wallpaper and the wood of the stairs. Leo in an almost awe-inspiring display of power and desperation, fires a burst of flames. It singes the skin of Ryouma’s back. He screams and turns back as the servant stabs through his handless forearm. Running on the pure adrenaline and rage -- built up by twenty-eight years of loneliness and resentment -- that flows through him like a phantom, Ryouma tears that knife out and stabs it into the slave’s shoulder. As the shock starts to kick in, Ryouma kicks him down the stairs.

Thud, thud, thud. The body drops to the end of the spiral staircase, resting at a platform about a story down. And it goes completely still after that. Breathing; but only barely. Ryouma follows down after it before Leo can get ahold of his bearings. Disarmed.

It is much harder to attack up a staircase, you know. So these two were doomed to fail from the very moment they pursued Ryouma up here.

Exactly as the Gods decreed it.

***

On the tenth floor, at the end of a long hallway, there is a bedroom built out of love. With a double locked door and the smell of rotting pig carcasses (sweeter than blood) soaking it in miasma, it was his father’s Eden and the refuge for Xander’s bloodstained body. It was a place for just the two of them and Xander’s personal hell. And it was an expression of love. Some horrible, half-aborted abomination of a love that even now, even after all this, Xander covets. By putting Ryouma in that room, Xander has revealed many things about himself that he wished he had not. He is sentimental and frail with a sensitive skin and heart and soon, he is going to die. These truths were etched into the walls of that ‘Eden’ and Ryouma read and accepted each and every one of them.

Bloody scratches creep up Xander’s arms and legs like vines.

Xander will not chase Ryouna anymore. Not physically and not emotionally. It will do nothing more than rile them both up so much that they might do something they regret. Xander was going to kill Ryouma had he caught him on the staircase. He wants to kill Ryouma even now. But it wouldn’t get him anywhere. Ryouma would be thrust down to the deepest parts of hell and Xander himself would be alone again. Xander doesn’t want to be like his father, anyway. He doesn’t want to throw his toys away once they have gotten too old or too difficult. He will train Ryouma like a dog with a steady hand and a gentle heart full of tears. Like this, Ryouma will become an honest man. Xander will become honest, too.

He has repressed his desire and emotions and lived judging others for their sins while wearing the face of a saintly man. It was remarkably deceitful and he hates himself for it.

Xander kneels down and starts to wash the floor. The last prisoner here died shitting blood from his anus and, while Xander is angry, Ryouma deserves better than that. He is a prince and a noble man. The cot is unfitting as well. Dark stains, all brown and red, paint the image of the prisoner’s sleeping form onto it. Xander finishes with the floor and just throws it out. The smell is unbearable anyway. Besides that, a futon mat is more appropriate for someone of Ryouma’s bloodline.

Xander’s attention is then turned towards someone knocking on the cell door. Without washing his hands, although normally the blood would upset him so much that he would use bleach, he opens the door.

“Leo and Niles are hurt.” Camilla sighs. “Ryouma apparently found a shiv made out of a fountain pen in a guard’s room and took out Leo’s eye. Niles ‘fell’ down the stairs.”

“I see. Is that all?” Xander turns back and checks the meat hooks on the ceiling.

They’re a little rusty so he should replace them. He wouldn’t want Ryouma to get lockjaw. Xander stands up on the chair in the corner and starts unscrewing the rusty hooks.

“Xander, at this rate, he’s going to escape! Aren’t you even a little concerned? Or are you over him?”

“Oh it’s nothing like that.” He throws them onto the floor. “I simply don’t think he will make it much further than the front door. Call it intuition.”

“You’re not one to rely on such immaterial things, Xander. Is there something wrong?” Camilla asks.

Xander starts attaching fresh hooks and chains onto the ceiling.

“A man must have a little faith in the things he loves, Camilla. Nothing less, nothing more.” They sparkle like jewels in the dim light. “He will come back to me because we love one another to the depth of our hearts. Nay, more than that. Our immortal souls, that have coiled around one another like snakes, are attached to one another. If it’s like that then how could I possibly have any doubt?”

“And if he doesn’t love you as much as you love him?

“Well, he will return anyway.” Xander replaces the chair he’s standing on too. Something as rickety as this could easily be used as a weapon against him were he to turn his back. Then, he begins to funnel furniture of various kinds in. “Consider this, little sister; Ryouma’s body has been altered by me, crippled by me, destroyed by me and by that body alteration, I revealed what lurked beneath the samurai mask. Where can he go once he has realized this? Who can he turn to now? When he is the very picture of disgrace and now that his pride has been haphazardly strewn across the grounds?”

A restraint chair, a table, a wardrobe filled with all number of clothing that Xander knows Ryouma will despise, a large bathtub heated magically by itself, a riding horse, a pillory and several racks filled with traditional torture equipment. One rack is dedicated to blunt force instruments, whips and crops. Another to knives and needles. And the third is a hymn to Xander’s youth; adorned with syringes full of mysterious fluids, some that even Xander does not know, and spells from books that have long since been banned. In short, this room shall become ‘Paradise’. Ryouma’s very own personal hell.

Ah, although Xander so desperately wanted another outcome, it seems it’s all gone back to this.

This room is a reflection of his true self; more accurate than a mirror. It reflects his the black that has gathered inside his hideous soul from the resentment and resignation that has been building up and the mistakes of his forefathers that run through his veins like an infection. In this mirror, Xander sees his past and future laid out. He sees Ryouma’s. That beautiful, sparkling, ephemeral soul and his own are embracing in awe of their future. Yes, dragged out before his eyes is a world without pain or resentment. It is a future together; of slowly falling together. Xander will be honest with himself then and there and loved regardless of how malformed his body and his mind has become.

It is comforting if ultimately a lie.

“I don’t know nearly as much about Ryouma as you do, Xander.” Camilla says. “But I trust in you as I always have.”

“Thank you, Camilla.”

She really shouldn’t.

***

“Do you resent me, Alexander?” His father kneels down on his hands and knees. “Do you hate me, Xander? For all that I have done?”

Xander didn’t answer for a moment.

“We share blood Alexander! So we should love each other as father and son!”

We share blood after all.

The words stuck in his mind like a haunting. They lurked far beyond the depths of his consciousness and rationality. Suddenly, explosively, for the first time in his nineteen years of life, he is disgusted. His father, who crawls around like a worm in the dirt when he feels the slightest bit of guilt, is tying Xander to himself. A noose of arteries sharply tightens around Xander’s throat.

Is it not enough for him to own Xander’s body and his mind? Must he have his future as well? Hasn’t anyone considered that Xander is own person! That he wants his own life! To have his own family! To live righteously!

Xander can not remember despising his father as much as he despises him in this moment.

This disgust is quickly masked over with terror. His father only begs like this after something terrible has happened or before something terrible is to happen. Since Xander had a good day today, that means… Xander swallows the disgust and the fear down with a backwash of guilt. It is his fault that such painful things have happened to his father you see and as he watches his father degrade himself, he can not help but feel responsible for it.

“Please don’t hate me. Please don’t hate me Xander! I love you so much!” His father pleads.

“I don’t hate you.” Xander replies. “You are my hero.”

It’s not quite a lie or rather, it wasn’t supposed to be a lie. HIs glorious and honourable father was indeed a hero having dove into a frozen lake for Xander even knowing they might both die of hypothermia. Xander can remember how the ice leeched the warmth from his bones. He knew from that moment that he was destined to suffer. Even so, his father came. Is that sort of selflessness not the definition of heroism?

“Your hero? I don’t deserve such praise, Xander! I am a dog!” His father cries.

Pitiful he may be, his father has always, always, always wanted to protect Xander. It is for the sake of that desire that Xander is living; that Xander wants to live. He feels precious, meaningful, as he basks in that love. The more his father tries to prevent Xander from dying or running away, the more satisfied Xander feels with his life. It’s so very different from how things were when his mother and the concubines were alive. Back then, no one would touch him. No one would talk to him. His father was focusing on the kingdom and his errant brides and all of the other, more talented children and so, he didn’t even have time to speak to Xander. In a way, this has all been a blessing. At least Xander isn’t lonely anymore.

“You don’t have to lie on the floor like that, Father.” Xander says in the most gentle voice he can manage; as one would speak to a young child or a dying man or a dog. “I love you, alright?”

***

Pain is an illusion. His father said this calmly as Ryouma stabbed him through the hand. Without flinching, without so much as a gasp, he pulled the knife out from his hand and pinned Ryouma to the wall by it.

“If you don’t think about it, you can’t feel it. Do you understand, Ryouma?” Saying so, he broke his son’s nose with the blunt of his tanto. “It’s only in your mind.”

Ryouma limps to the front gates, leaving a trail of blood behind him. He’s dying, he thinks. But it isn’t so bad if it’s like this. He shall die as a hero in enemy territory having dragged his broken and bused body out from that miniature hell. That is some kind if victory, isn’t it? If not to his father in heaven and the countless samurai dragged up there then to himself and to Xander. Xander’s opinion is the most important, anyway.

A soldier reaches his hand out to help Ryouma and then, as if stuck, recoils away. For a brief moment, their eyes meet. Ryouma’s green eyes are still filled with resolution and that young man’s, with pity. Ryouma pushes him away and drags on. He drags his ruined body past the first gate and then the second and then out into the woods that hide Castle Krackenburg. There, is body finally begins to slow. His breathing grows haggard and each step feels like an eternity. It is as if the weight of his world and all the sins he has committed has been lumped onto him. That’s what he’s dragging behind him. That’s what he is going to leave behind.

At least he never had any children.

Ryouma leans against a tree and pushes off. The blood from his arm and shoulder has started to congeal and the flow has slowed so in spite of the earlier blood loss, he is feeling optimistic. If only he could find someone! A farmer or a stableboy or even a lost thief would do. He could convince them he’s a traveller was injured in a mugging or steal an elixir or something. And if not, he will die with his dignity. Xander won’t kill him nor will he kill himself. There is honour in that.

 _“Since when did you care about honour?”_ Ryouma’s subconscious hums.

He pushes past a collection of brambles, cutting his body to shreds and finally sees it. A shack.

The wood is all cracked and the paint has been worn off by god knows how many storms but the door handle is as shiny and unrusted as the door to the castle. The light reflecting off the handle is Ryouma’s hope. It is the refuge for his bloodstained body. He puts a shaking hand on the door handle and finds it almost delightfully warm; warmer than anything he has felt all his life. He turns the handle and pushes on the door. It opens with a groan. Just across from it is a treasure chest with the lid popped off and a broken lock nearby. For a moment, Ryouma is afraid that it has been looted but it seems the owner simply left in a hurry before repairing it. He can still see something shine in there.

As he gets closer, Ryouma sees clearly inside of it. There, surrounded by a dark purple cloak, is an elixir. Ryouma runs towards it and in an instant, is knocked down.

“Man, I sure am lucky Niles and Lord Leo hurt you so bad! Otherwise, you would definitely have heard me!” A woman says in a mockingly childish voice.

She crushes Ryouma’s knee under her hammer. Convexing, inverting, bursting, his knee twists inwards at an almost acute angle. There is no blood and very little pain but nonetheless, it’s ruined.

“How pretty! How wonderful! Your face has gone totally white!” She hums.

That obnoxiously shrill voice, the tears of joy streaming from her face and her cruel gaze, Ryouma swallows all of them down with a backwash of bitterness. If he were to die from his wounds, that’d be alright. If he were to kill himself rather than be forced to spend another minute with the Crown Prince, that’d be alright. If Xander or Prince Leonard or even the pathetic Princess Elizabeth were to kill him, that’d be fine too. But her, she, the clownish woman speaking in a baby’s voice? She has absolutely no right to snuff his life out.

Ryouma grabs his knee from behind his leg and with a shriek, starts to force it back into place. It is pain beyond pain; as if the place that was his knee had been replaced with acid and with each push of it, he is forcing the acid deeper into his muscles.

“What are you doing there?” The woman tilts her head off to the side like a bird.

Ryouma bends his knee back into place and, half-walking, half-throwing himself, he reaches for the elixir. His right hand snags on the purple fabric inside of the chest. ‘Salvation’ is right here! It is within his grasp!

“Hey, hey, seriously, don’t put up a fight.” She walks over towards him.

It’s only in your mind. Ryouma clings onto those words as a Hindu would a mantra and drags the cape out from the chest and the bottle with it. His ‘one more step’, the last light in his hopeless world, dashes against the ground. With it, goes Ryouma’s future.

“Oh. Wow. That’s really unlucky!” The woman laughs. And laughs. And laughs.

Ryouma scrapes his nails against the ground, clawing his way across the floor until his nail beds have turned a startling red. He presses his face to the ground and starts to lick. Thin, glass splinters dig into his lips and tongue and blood leaks from all number of wounds on it. He keeps licking anyway.

His father would sneer at him if he saw this, you know. He’d rather see Ryouma dead then submit to anything or anyone but himself. Ryouma can hear his voice now in the back of his mind.

“You stain my honour, you pathetic child.” It hisses.

But Ryouma is alive and his father is dead! So who really wins?

Ryouma stands on his shaking legs and as he does so, the flesh on his shoulder and the cut on his wrist and the place where his arm was, they all begin to heal. Like a sweater of flesh and meat, he is knit together. Yes, his leg is still broken. Yes, it hurts like a thousand needles in a thousand nerves all layered up on one another. Yes, he feels faint and his head is full of slow moving blood and doubts. But this is one more step, isn’t it? He gets into stance.

“Alright. Let’s fight.” The girl smiles. It’s all wrong.

Xander’s is wrong in so far as it doesn’t quite reach his and the only thing lying behind Leonard’s smile is loneliness. It’s not like either of those. It’s not even like his father’s own before a war. In its very own, very terrible way, it’s wrong. Ryouma simply can not describe it.

The woman runs at him with her hammer, laughing with the voice of a little girl. Ryouma dodges the first swing and closes the distance between them. Just a few steps; that is all it will take for him to get his hands around her painfully thin throat. And if he could do that, if he could do just that… Well then, she might as well be dead already. For her, the fight will not be nearly as easily. It will take her far more than a few steps to hurt him the same way he can hurt her. That is a metaphor for life. Perhaps for parental relationships. You never know what burdens your children might be carrying; for what is a few steps to you is an eternity for them. Or something.

She swings again. Ryouma throws himself away from it, getting so close the two of them can practically taste each other. At least, Ryouma can taste her. The bloody air surrounding her and the sweat hanging around as a haze confirm one theory; she’s been chasing him since the castle.

“If I hit you just right, you’d just die.” She remarks in a singsong tone. “Wouldn’t that be nice? To just die? You can see your father again! And Mikoto too! I bet they’re all waiting for you to fail!”

Ryouma punches her. Her nose bloodies upon the impact, blood and snot trailing down from it down onto her lips.

“Don’t talk about my father, whore.” Ryouma bites back.

Even though she didn’t, really, say anything about him.

She drops her hammer and takes a small sword instead. Ryouma punches her again and his fist is met with the blade. Using more force than her tiny body should possess, she forces the blade into Ryouma’s knuckles and down his good hand almost splitting it in two. Ryouma uselessly raises his stump to attack and-- oh. So that’s how it is.

“My name is Peri. I am Xander’s last retainer and a noblewoman from the territory of Saarland.” She rips her knife out from Ryouma’s hand. “I want to kill you. I have wanted to kill you for a long time Xander says I can’t. He says that he loves you and that he’s going to marry you. I know that’s a lie. Xander has never loved anyone in that way before Laslow and he won’t love anyone afterwards. You’re just a shitty, poorly formed, ugly little replacement. Do you understand?”

Ryouma slumps to the ground, holding his hand to his stomach.

“I despise you.” She spits on his face.

His body can no longer move. It has finally worn out. But if it could, if he could muster any more strength, he would grab her forehead and bite her nose clean off. And then he would die.

“Fuck you.” He says instead.

She takes her sword and sighs at him. It reminds him of the noises Takumi used to make where Ryouma would force him to put his toys away.

“Those are some really shitty last words, Mister Byakuya.”

***

So what a relief it must be to Ryouma that those were not his last words. Indeed, Xander never had any intentions of letting Peri kill him. That would be much like destroying a portrait before the varnish had been applied or burning a manuscript missing a chapter. That is what Xander thinks and since it is what he thinks and it is what his father would have thought, it has become the truth of his miserable little world. This is how he has carried on for ten years now.

His father’s beliefs, no matter how erroneous, were Xander’s reality. Like the pull of the winds or the changing of the tides, they were completely and utterly impossible to fight against or change. The only thing he could do was accept them. Eventually, he would stop pretending that he believed them and would start really believing them. Everything became nice and neat and orderly when that happened. His father would tell him what to do, when to do it and who to do it too. He never had any real doubts. He never had any real reason to doubt. All of those things that you might think were ‘doubt’ are all lies and he never believed any of them.

Now that his father has died, Xander has only gotten worse. He finds that without someone powerful telling him what to do that his life is purposeless and aimless. No, nothing has changed at all. Simply, instead of relying on his father’s perceptions, Xander is relying on the ‘truth’ that the black things that crawl inside of his body like parasitic worms and his mother spit out at him.

“Does this count as you returning to me?” Xander asks.

“No.” Ryouma says.

“I love you.” Xander pulls a knife down off the wall.

It has a good weight to it.

“I don’t want your goddamned love.” Ryouma spits back. “You’re a senseless lump of flesh, Alexander. You’re shit. Human garbage.”

“I love you because you are cruel to me. It makes me feel dirty.” Xander spins the knife in his hands.

He runs a finger up the serrated edge. It will leave a wonderful scar; huge and ugly no matter how well it is stitched. Were he to stab himself, it would leave a rotten pink keloid; spreading beyond the original size. On Ryouma’s, it will remain tan and flat and lovely. Xander stabs it into his own leg and twists the blade. Blood so dark that it looks black in the absence of light slowly slips out from the slit in the front of his thigh.

“What the fuck is wrong with you!” Ryouma screams.

“What’s wrong with me?” Xander slowly pulls the knife out. The wound is about two inches deep and a centimeter wide. “What’s wrong with you?”

It’s become a sex organ now; a tool of pleasure as all wounds eventually become.

“There’s nothing wrong with me.” Ryouma tugs at his restraints.

It’s futile and it is going to hurt him more than it helps but he’s doing it anyway. That is the meaning of resolution.

“Haven’t you noticed yet, Lord Byakuya? What is reflected in your eyes?” Xander sashays over.

He leaves the wound on his leg open and moves gracefully as if he had merely scraped his knee. With even, dance-like movements, Xander unfastens his corset. He slips out of it as a snake would its own skin and leaves it in a heap on the floor. His shirt follows it.

“It isn’t as if I can see my eyes.” Ryouma stops tugging but the light in his eyes doesn’t fade.

It probably never will.

“It’s metaphorical, Ryouma. Although that was probably sarcasm.”

Xander unlaces his boots and steps out of them, leaving them in front of Ryouma’s chair.

“Are you really that stupid that you can’t tell when I’m joking?” Ryouma looks down at him.

Xander undoes the straps keeping his pants on and worms his way out of them. Those, too, go on the heap of fabric in the corner. He’s probably going to have to throw them away, you know. People have shit, vomited and died on this floor.

“I will ask you again, Lord Byakuya. What is reflected in your eyes?” Xander says, almost humming.

He steps out from his briefs and throws them on top of the pile. Those, he can probably save. Although he should have just folded up his clothes and put them neatly away on his newly installed shelving system.

“Fuck you.” Ryouma laughs. “Go and follow your Daddy to hell, you disgusting child.”

Xander takes a leather apron off a hook and ties it around his waist. It covers more than Camilla’s armour does so he’s satisfied. They probably thought it was for her, anyway.

“Is that your answer? Your final answer? Is that what you want to pin your future and this present week on, Lord Byakuya?” Xander asks.

“It isn’t as if I can understand you.” Ryouma says. “Your metaphors, your allegories, the reason why you act the way you do, it’s all as pointless for me to try and understand as it is for man to understand why the wind blows. Do you get it, Xander? What I’m trying to say?”

“Your cruelty lights my heart aflame, Lord Byakuya.” Xander smiles from ear to ear.

He takes a needle and thread.

“But really. Please guess. If you don’t guess, if you don’t try, then I am totally unable to feel satisfied with this situation. This is how I live my life.”

Ryouma thinks for a second and then a minute and then five. Then five more. Then ten more. He thinks until Xander’s legs begin to grow tired and his stomach acid begins to lick at his throat.

“Resolution.” Ryouma says firmly and with finality after what feels like eternity.

He says it because of his resolve; because he is still hoping that he will be saved and that Xander will keep his promise of one more week. This is the meaning of ‘bushido’.

“Well, you aren’t wrong. No, you aren’t wrong at all.” Xander laughs. “In your eyes, there is a crimson spirit but there is something else as well. Something that even normal people like Sakura or Kamui can perceive. Can you guess? Or shall I just tell you?”

“Just tell me. I’m tired and hungry and I’ve been running around all day.” Ryouma replies.

Xander rests his leg on the edge of the table and starts to stitch the gash in his leg. He flinches at first but the pain is quickly chased away by pleasure. His father is to thank for that.

“The answer is much more literal than you think, Lord Byakuya. Please first take into consideration that eyes are like mirrors; they reflect whatever they are looking back at them. What are you looking at right now, Lord Byakuya? Where are all the mirrors pointed at? And what am I looking at? Like that, we can figure out my motivations and we can figure out why we are drawn together.”

He pulls the thread tight so he can try and avoid a particularly nasty scar. Then, with a pair of surgical scissors, he cuts it off. Xander leaves the needle in some purifying fluids and takes some cream off the shelf. As he smears it down his leg, the wound begins to heal by itself. But before it can completely heal, he stops. Instead, he lets the bloody hole and the slightly crooked stitches be. Like the pink scars trailing up his thighs and the keloids that hug his hips and waist, they will become a a memory he can’t forget.

“We’re looking at each other.” Ryouma says.

“We’re reflecting each other.” Xander corrects. “I am you and you are me. The twisted moon I was born under was your twisted sun and each time I was broken, you were broken as well.”

Xander picks up a syringe.

“This is why I was assured that you would return to me.”

Ryouma looks down at the syringe with hard eyes. The rest of his face betrays nothing.

“You know full well that this wasn’t willing my part. Are you so delusional that you think I wanted to get beaten into the ground by that womanchild? Or are you acting up so I’ll insult you some more? I can’t understand you.” Ryouma replies.

Xander tourniquets the area just above Ryouma’s with a thick strip of leather. He really shouldn’t be dosing Ryouma again after the last one but he’s certain his dear friend can handle it.

“It doesn’t matter if it was willing or not, although I had hoped it would be, Lord Byakuya. I feel warm and assured that you lost there. After all, everything was on your side. You were fighting my weak servant who was using an unwieldy weapon that she could barely handle in forest territory where a Hoshidan such as yourself should have the advantage. There was even a Elixir conveniently placed in that box for you. I didn’t even know about it!” Xander laughs.

He presses the needle into Ryouma’s forearm and even so slowly injects it. Ryouma lets out a soft hiss and rocks back into his chair.

“What doomed you there was not Peri or I; it was your own misfortune. And like a mirror, your misfortunate reflects back onto me. Your failures are my success and vice versa. So yes, Lord Byakuya. You returned to me if not by your own hand then the hand of fate.”

Xander takes a thin knife, the sort you would use to cut fish but within the short length of a paring knife, and holds it against Ryouma’s inner thigh. Here, there is an almost horrific absence of scars. The only marks that exist are the ones that Xander has left behind. Only those break up the immaculate tan of Ryouma’s body and only they are beautiful.

“This is my last week here, isn’t it?” Ryouma does not make eye contact with Xander.

He stares at the wall instead with a completely neutral gaze; as if nothing but that wall has ever existed or shall exist again. Xander is all too familiar with that stare. It was all he could do from the period between his seventeenth birthday and his twenty-first and has been a common companion ever since.

Although Xander should feel happy that Ryouma is finally starting to ‘get it’, he feels unsatisfied. He scratches his throat with his thumbnail and leaves a line of blood.

“It is.” The blood turns black in the dull light. “But I don’t want to marry you anymore.”

“Is that so?” Ryouma drawls back.

Is he not even going to pretend that he cares!

“I don’t want to marry you or Kamui. I don’t even want to marry my beloved Tyger anymore.” Xander hugs himself.

“And why’s that?” And there he goes again; looking for a window into Xander’s cognition.

He will worm his way inside of there like any other black tendril and will violate the very depths of Xander’s sensitive heart until nothing remains.

Or he would if Xander let him.

Something from the shadows wraps its arms around Xander’s throat. It clings onto there in a parody of a hug.

 _“You’re still so childish. Clinging onto dreams that won’t come true.”_ It says.

Xander cuts down Ryouma’s thigh in one motion.

_“”Fate”, “Morality”, “Righteous”? You sound like your father used to. But blood turns to blood and as men grow up, they learn to dispose of those useless things.”_

The wound is as shallow and deceptive as Ryouma’s heart. But unlike that heart, it is going to leave a lasting impression on Ryouma’s skin.

_“You can not move on from those things, can you Alexander? Because to move on from those is to admit that you really haven’t changed anything. For all your struggling and all your suffering, for every feeling that you repressed and every genuine smile you have ever given, you have ended up just like your father.”_

Xander smears the blood from his throat into Ryouma’s wound. There. It’s infected.

_“You really are a disgusting child.”_

Somewhere deep, deep inside of Xander’s mind, a fire is lit. It burns from his throat down to his stomach, sparing not even the most sacred.

He shrieks. White sand fills his mouth and tears his stomach apart and by God, he wants to see Laslow again so terribly he feels as if he’s dying. He smashes his head into the wall unable to stop his tears. At first, it’s only to calm himself down but the soothing gesture soon turns into a repetition and much like cutting himself, he can’t stop. He can’t go back.

“Don’t abandon me!” Xander scratches down his face to try and stop the tears but only manages to hurt himself. “Don’t throw me away! Don’t leave me with him again, you bitch!”

“Who are you talking to, Xander?” Ryouma asks calmly.

“Shut up! Shut up!” Her body thumped over the door jam and vanished. With it, Xander disappeared too.

Blood stained her stern face an almost black colour.

“Why won’t anyone help me!” Xander screams so loudly that his throat starts to hurt.

It stained Xander, too. Somewhere deep within himself, where the sun will never reach, something very important was coloured a brilliant crimson.

“I did.” Ryouma says.

He’s saying that even though Leo bared every important memory in Ryouma’s mind. He’s saying that even though Suzukaze told Xander everything. He’s saying that even though Xander has heard from Saizou himself what he meant to Ryouma and what their friendship was always supposed to be. And even though he’s clearly lying, for a much too long moment, Xander believes him. No. It isn’t that he believes him for that is folly that not even an insane man would make. Xander simply wants to believe him. He wants to make that beautiful dream, the last hope he held onto as a boy, a reality!

As if a universe where he is satisfied could possibly exist.

“It’s getting worse, isn’t it, Xander?” Ryouma leans in a little. “The voices.”

Xander wipes his knife off on his apron and takes something viscerally similar to a melon scoop instead.

“This room is a reflection of myself. It is eden. It is a refuge. It is my personal hell and it is now yours.” Xander sniffles. “I didn’t want to grow up to be this way. I wanted to become a hero of Nohr! I wanted to rule with a steady hand and a gentle heart full of tears! I wanted to grow something, anything, in the ground that had become so stained with blood! But as my mother died, a piece of me died as well. Something that I can not name nor describe in any way but it died there nonetheless. My dreams died with it, as well.”

He disinfects it with a quick pour of vodka. Liquor splashes off the scoop and onto the ground, catching into the grout of the ground and inside one of the drains. Already, the smell is overpowering that of the blood.

“Hey, berate me again. It makes me so happy that you’re paying attention to me.” Xander begs.

He presses the scoop so close to Ryouma’s eye that his own body is starting to tremble.

“If you don’t make me feel something with your own power, I’m going to take your right eye out.”

Ryouma spits in his face.

“I can’t fucking reason with you. Your ego is corrupted.” He says.

Xander wipes the spit off with a finger and drills the scoop into Ryouma’s eye. For a blissful moment, Ryouma does not scream; he does not flinch or whimper or sneer. His left eye simply grows wide. And then he screams.

And oh, what a scream it is! It is that of an animal who has been caught in a trap and despite gnawing off their own hind leg, is utterly unable to escape! It is anger and betrayal and a profound pain. Xander can identify with it completely. Every single note, every single howl of pain or writhe of Ryouma’s body, he has lived before. In a way, it’s a comforting feeling. Like being hugged.

“Fuck you! Fuck you!” Ryouma shakes in his restraints and thumps the chair against the ground.

Xander licks the blood trickling off the scoop’s handle.

“It’s not even out yet Lord Byakuya. Now isn’t the time to cry.” He gives it another twist and some nerve or another violently snaps.

Ryouma screams again, hoarser this time, matching Xander’s previous outburst to the decibel. He’s crying from his good eye, too. Which frankly serves him right for trying to take advantage of Xander’s pain!

With the third twist and a sickening pop, Xander tears Ryouma’s eye out of his skull. Ryouma moans. His body twitches in the chair, precum leaking out from his slowly hardening cock.

“Let me tell you what I plan to do to you.” Xander rolls the eye around in his hands.

He sits down on Ryouma’s lap and grinds against his erection.

“Don’t touch me.” Ryouma half-heartedly groans.

Xander gently presses a kiss to his lips. They taste like rotten meat. But everything does these days.

“I will keep you in this room for a week. I won’t visit you at all during that period but on the last day, on Sunday, I will torture you until your mind is spinning and all of your thoughts feel as if they are drifting away.” Xander squishes Ryouma’s eye between his fingers.

The pupil condenses, threatening to break and make a mess of the whole damn thing.

“This will be your pilgrimage to the next world.”

Ryouma’s cock pokes out from beneath his dingy fundoshi and settles between Xander’s thighs. Xander spreads his legs further apart so their crotches are touching.

“After that, you will spend Monday will me. I will not hurt you. I will not drug you. I won’t even sleep with you. Nor will I let any of my men, my retainers or my family do any such thing. It is on this Monday that you will be given the time to make your decision.” He rubs his own cock against Ryouma’s.

Precum soaks Ryouma’s erection and leaks onto Xander’s own balls. Oh, this kind of arousal isn’t right. He must be overdosing then. Well, that’s fine too. The outcome is ultimately the same.

“You may stay with me and be my husband or you can go and take all of those I promised you could keep. Although Takumi will stay here.”

“I want my brother back.” Ryouma slumps onto Xander’s shoulder a little.

“I know Ryouma.” Xander cards his fingers through Ryouma’s mane of hair.

He pops the eye in his mouth and bites down on it, letting the vitreous jelly burst in his mouth. Now that pain that Ryouma felt should be nothing more than a fleeting memory.

“Some people are just born wrong, Xander.” Ryouma mutters. “You’re one of those people.”

Xander caresses Ryouma’s cheek. The heat of his soul, his resolution, his suffering, Xander can feel them all through the rough skin of his face. Somewhere, something inside of Ryouma is burning. It won’t stop until there isn’t anything left. How Xander wishes it could take him too.

“You were broken when you were born. There’s nothing I can do to make your pain go away or make you happy or whatever else it is what you want. You simply weren’t meant to exist in this world. You’re too pathetic, too insecure. You have this unbearable wish to die, am I right?”

“Keep going.”

“Why should I? It’s just going to turn you on even more.” Ryouma laughs. “Or whatever it is you think you’re getting out of this.”

Xander stands up and hangs his apron up.

“Goodbye Ryouma. I will see you next week.”

Ryouma smiles at him from where he sits. That smile, stretching out from cheek to cheek so that every tooth in Ryouma’s head is visible, is incomprehensible. Xander can understand it as much as he can understand why people do evil things or why the sky is so large. He can understand it as much as he can understand the human heart.

He closes and locks the door behind himself.

***

Thud.

Like a piece of meat, her pale body was dragged over the door jam.

“I will always be with you.” Her smile was radiant, like the sun.

Xander stares at the ground beneath his knees. There are faces in the wood, he’s discovered; faces with names that you get to decide all by yourself and lives that are totally up to your will. The one with the long, drawn out face looks like a Mary. She’s probably very popular with men but prefers women instead. That’s just the sort of look she had. The one beside her with the short face, well that’s--

“How much did you see Xander?” His father asks.

\-- Well that’s her sister. Her sister is not as popular with boys but that’s alright because the two of them are very close.

“Xander. How much did you see?” His father repeats.

“I didn’t see anything.” Xander replies. “Please don’t.”

“Did she do it to herself or was it the Baroness, Xander? I need to know!”

Xander holds his face in his hands and cries. At twelve years old, he is much, much, much too old to cry but he can’t stop. Although he’s scratching at his face until it bleeds and although his father has finally come home, he can’t stop.

“Christ! Gunter, come and fix this! He won’t stop!”

In the corner of the room, someone is rotting.

***

Solitary confinement can cause men to go mad in a matter of weeks. Ryouma has is certain Xander is among that population. You see, Xander is a mirror reflecting back onto others only what he has experienced. If he’s devised a torture or thought up a scheme, it’s only because someone else tried it on him first. He’s a very simple child.

“If he’s so simple then why can’t you defeat him?” Ryouma’s subconscious says.

He is a strange, earnest child that doesn’t understand love or resentment too well. His weak will is disgusting but bizarrely pitiable as well. Watching him is much like watching a wolf partially crushed by a carriage try to walk. A once proud and vain creature being laid low by something that didn’t even notice it hurt it is the ultimate expression of the universe’s unfairness. How much better it would be for the wolf to die with its dignity. Xander should have died a long time ago.

Then again, so should have Ryouma.

Ryouma slips out from his restraints with a dizzying ease. Xander must have made them loose intentionally, though, so he doesn’t take any pride in it. It would, after all, be too difficult to sleep and eat and all related things were he to have to spend the week strapped down to the chair. Xander would also not have bothered furnishing the room if he hadn’t wanted Ryouma to use it. He’s funny like that, Xander. His actions are honest but not his intentions.

While in the midst of thinking on karmic wheels and destiny, Ryouma catches a glimpse of himself in the mirrors. His hair is wild and tangled and the stump where his hand used to be is a throbbing red colour. It might be infected, actually. That sounds about right of the quality of Jakob’s work. Where his eye once, too, there is a hole and from that hole, there is a trail of black and stinking blood that has congealed and dried over the past few hours. Ryouma traces the half-wet smear with his finger. It leads from his empty socket down to the middle of his chest. Disgusting.

Ryouma takes a rag from one of the shelving units and looks for water. There isn’t any, of course. Some slot in the wall or another will be used to disseminate food and water on an ‘as needed’ basis most likely. So that means the only water in the room at the moment is what is being used for the flush toilet. Ryouma hovers his rag over the bowl for a long moment. The water in the toilet is as clean as the water that comes from the sink which is as clean as the cleanest river in Nohr. So it isn’t a matter of cleanliness. It isn’t a matter of safety either as if he got an infection, Xander would cure it. No, this is simply the manifestation of Ryouma’s pride. He is a prince, you see, and an ambassador for the Gods. He mustn’t do anything else that would make anyone think any less of him or anything that would make anyone think any less of him or anything that would embarrass his family; he’s already done enough. Ryouma takes the vodka off the shelf and pours it on his rag. He dabs at his chest, feeling a slight sting as he scrapes the dried blood away. From there, he scrapes away at his neck and his face before settling near his eye.

“Pain is an illusion.” He mutters.

Ryouma presses the rag to his eye. It’s painful, more painful than it should be, but there is beauty in that pain. Ryouma feels himself getting hot all over. His body is changing. It is becoming distorted and debauched like a warship smashed repeatedly with a hammer. When Ryouma looks in the mirror, he finds that he can no longer recognize himself.

 

 

 

Specifically, it takes just over two weeks for people in solitary to begin to lose their minds. Ryouma should know, that was part of his training regime. For two weeks straight once a year he would be kept in a little locked room all by himself. Food and water would be entered in from somewhere mysterious and it was his duty to either escape from that room or to not go crazy. The first time it happened he was twelve years old. He didn’t manage to escape. Instead, he slept the entire time. If it was like that, it was easy to say sane! Ryouma couldn’t figure out why soldiers would flinch with fear after being removed or why people would bite their tongues out before they’d return. It was the second time around that he realized that the first was a mistake. There, then, in that place, he truly understood sorrow. He could feel loneliness creeping out from the depths of his heart and mingling with the resentment and rage into something horrific instead. The third time, he began to dread that room. Its unpredictable but yearly visit was a constant source of horror in his life. It made him want to be obedient above all else although he knew it could not be avoided regardless. And the fourth time, he escaped and he never had to do it ever again. So no, he is not afraid of this ‘hell’ that Xander has constructed. And no, he does not pity Xander. Not really. How could you pity those eyes so full of sorrow?

 

 

 

Ryouma doesn’t lose track of days. He would in his teenage years but not anymore. That was something else his father carved on his body along with all the sword forms in the country and the correct way to say “Please don’t hate me.”. So when he wakes up this time, he is innately aware that this is the third day. As most people can only go three days without water -- Ryouma can go for eight -- there is due to be a shipment today. This would be the perfect time to escape if Ryouma still had his arm and his eye and if he wasn’t almost one hundred percent nigh confident that Xander will keep his promise of releasing him on Monday. Where is the opening though? That is the question. If it is hidden and he doesn’t find it soon, he will be too weak to survive whatever Xander will do on the last day. He can’t rely on Xander knowing that he’s too ill to ‘play’. He’s like a dog, really.

From across the room, there is a scraping sound. Ryouma beelines to it and kneels by. Through a hole in the wall at the bottom of the floor, a vial full of water is pushed in. It’s pitiful; barely two millilitres. Ryouma yanks it away from the hole and the wall closes up.

“Bitch.” His hands shake as he tries to take off the cap and he ends up spilling an eighth of it.

As he tries to set it down, the same thing happens and he loses another tenth. Ryouma lifts it again and drinks the whole vial. It barely dents his thirst but it is better that sloshing it around until there is nothing left.

Ryouma stumbles up off the ground and onto his futon. His entire body is shaking now; shaking and covered in a thin sheet of sweat that grows thicker with every passing second. Despite this, his body feels horribly cold. From the core of his stomach to the depths of his heart, he is cold. Ryouma pulls the comforter over himself and huddles beneath it in a tight ball.

His tonsils hurt.

 

 

 

He wakes up in the middle of the night and everything is burning. The slightest brush sends a rash of pain up the affected limb to his spinal cord. That in turn causes him to flinch which causes him to brush against something and so on and so on until he can barely breathe without thinking about the pain. It feels like he’s dying. Is he dying? Is he dying in this shithole of a country all alone? Dying outside in the woods was bad enough. Dying from missing that balcony would have been worse and dying from that womanchild swinging a hammer around like a toy would be yet worse than that but this… This… This!

If he knew it would all come down to this, he might as well have just become Xander’s doll. Dying in this room that reeks of rotting meat and shit is unbearable. At least becoming Xander’s doll would have been by his own will! He could have turned it to his favour one day and ruled as King over this place where the sun refuses to shine! Like this, dying like this, he is no better than his father. He’s worse than his father, even, for the man died in something one could loosely call a battle. He died protecting the homeland that they loved and, contrary to his personality, for a softer world. Ryouma will instead slip away into the night like his weak mother. He will die completely and utterly without dignity; as a bloated, diseased corpse swollen with the weight of its earthly sins! He will die with his body completely on display as an object of hatred and a toy for which Xander has projected his desires onto!

Disgusting.

Ryouma forces himself up even though the pain is excruciating and drags himself over to the shelves. His legs feel about to burst. His heart is beating so quickly that it seems as if it’ll explode. This is resolution! This is bushido! This is the strength of Ryouma and all of his ancestors before him!

He leans his entire body against the shelf and starts searching through it with his shaking hands. Through mountains of knives and needles and pins and distinctively Nohrian spells and potions and all manner of other horrid little things, he shifts. And ultimately, he finds absolutely nothing of use. He simply sinks to the ground with a small cry of pain and curls up where he lays.

 

 

 

Anyway, Ryouma doesn’t die. He spends two days curled up sobbing on the floor but he doesn’t die. On the fourth day, he wishes he would die. On the fifth, he’s just tired and aching and wants to go home and see Saizou again. Xander can keep Takumi. He can keep Kamui. He can keep anyone else here. Ryouma just wants to see Saizou again. That’s a little pathetic of him, isn’t it? For all he ridicules Xander for, for all he used to ridicule Takumi for, he’s rocking on the floor hoping for the same things. At least he is self-aware enough to know it’s pathetic.

His body aches. It’s tired. His twenty-eight years of misery and overuse are finally catching up to him here, in this place. It feels ironic but he can’t put his finger on why. It just is, like most things in the miniature garden he called his ‘world’ for the past ten years.

This is how he’s lived, you know, since he was a boy. Questioning nothing, understanding even less than that, and yet looking down at everyone with a contemptuous gaze. Who, tell me, do you really think Ryouma was looking down on?

 

 

 

On the morning of the six day, something inside of Ryouma dies. It rots over the following afternoon. By the evening, it has already morphed into something unfamiliar and so sweet that it makes Ryouma want to vomit. In fact, he does vomit. Right into the hole where his water comes out from. Serves the bitch right.

Ryouma lies on his futon mat. His stomach hurts but that’s only natural. How long did he think he could go with a full belly in Nohr, anyway? He heard once that even the royal family was reduced to eating human flesh because of a famine. What a sight that would be. Pigs eating pigs. And yes, yes that is pretty hypocritical of him to say. But you see, about that, he just doesn’t give a fuck! It serves them right! It serves them all right!

He shatters the empty vial against the wall. If you didn’t know any better, you would think he’s a drunk. Like his father. He isn’t, though. He’s just a junkie and a whore. Ryouma laughs. He is almost certain that this is being caused by a cognitive drop as a result of withdrawal from that awful, awful drug but it doesn’t really matter. On Monday, he will go home and he will see Saizou again and all will be well. It will be as it should be. The two of them will speak formally to one another as they always do and that night, Ryouma will tell him everything that happened here. Saizou will not say a word nor will his face betray any emotion but peace will overcome them both. Ryouma because he has finally been sympathized with and Saizou because he knows that his master is free. The two of them will continue their lives like this. They will do so without interference. That is Ryouma’s true dream; truer than anything his father had ever wished for him to do or to be.

 

 

 

And then, suddenly, it is Sunday. For some reason, Ryouma feels empty. If this is a victory then it is one he did not deserve. That sort of thinking is more suited to his father though so Ryouma swallows it back as he waits for the door to open. It isn’t very long before it does. Xander is, it seems, honourable as well as punctual.

“I felt like I was dying.” Ryouma says. “And then like I was going insane.”

“Is that so?” Xander drawls at him in an imitation of Ryouma’s voice.

Ryouma snarls at it.

“I wasn’t saying it because I wanted your fucking pity, Xander! Don’t mock me!” He spits.

Xander drags something behind him in a white sheet. There it goes, right over the doorstep. Thud.

“Then why were you saying it?” Xander lifts the bag onto the table and starts opening it.

Ryouma fixates on the sheet. Whatever is underneath it is too small and too short to be a human but the shape is evocative of one. Furthermore, the scent that’s coming off of it isn’t natural. It smells like blood that has been masked over with perfumes.

“What’s under there, Xander?” Ryouma is about to drown in open air.

He hasn’t felt this way since he was a boy; not since the day his father died.

“Kamui.” Xander tears the sheet open.

“What?” Ryouma goes cold.

“I said it’s Kamui.” He pulls it away and reveals Kamui’s painfully thin, painfully broken body beneath it.

Where his beautifully slender legs once were, there is nothing more than ugly stumps and jagged stitching of skin around bone. Thin red cuts, looking for the world like ribbons, embrace his pale skin. In the image of Snow White, Xander has smeared Kamui’s body with blood. Ryouma can not help but start to sob for the hideousness of it all.

“You’re still in withdrawal. He’s trying to entrap you in your emotions.” Ryouma’s rational mind screams.

“Why?” Ryouma asks.

Xander props Kamui up against the wall and strips again. The apron and the leather gloves go on, everything else goes off. He takes a syringe in hand, bites the cap off with his teeth and spits it at Ryouma’s feet. Xander takes Kamui’s wrist and kisses it without breaking eye contact.

“I’m asking you why, bastard!” Ryouma hisses.

Xander injects Kamui at the base of his groin; beneath his testicles. As soon as the stopper is pushed and the needle is removed, Kamui comes ‘alive’. He wraps his arms around Xander’s throat and his ‘legs’ around his waist. Xander half-heartedly holds his back while staring at Ryouma. He hardly looks human with his head tilted to the side like that.

“There are no more drugs in your system. Over the course of those six days, you passed through most of the withdrawal. Actually, you passed through it quite easily. Normally I would start to feel pleasure in odd places on the seventh day through the twelfth before it finally wore off.” Xander says.

Ryouma is starting to resent this new nonchalant tone of his. It was much better when Xander was screaming his head off or confessing his love every three minutes. That was predictable, in a way.

“It isn’t that I’m strong. It’s that you are weak.” Ryouma says.

Xander picks Kamui up with one arm and brings him over to the mat where Ryouma is lying. He could kill Xander now, you know. It would be so easy. All he’d have to do is…

“Did your father teach you that line?” Xander sets Kamui down on the restraint chair.

Yes.

“Stop changing the goddam subject!” If he kills Xander then Camilla will kill him and she will go to Hoshido and kill Hinoka, Saizou and Sakura too.

Judging by Kamui’s eyes, he’d probably just end up jumping on the knife anyway.

Xander starts searching through the shelves. He opens and shuts a pair of scissors with a sigh before putting them aside. A pair of pliers follow. This continues on for some time before Xander abruptly stops with his hand on something wrapped up in paper. Xander dangles it in front of Ryouma eyes.

“Let’s return to the classics.” He slowly unwraps it.

It’s a cat o’nine tails more or less. The handle is sleek and gentle; clearly custom made from the way it fits Xander’s fingers just so. But the tails are odd. Where braided leather would normally be ‘woven’ into it, there’s wire. Xander runs a gloved hand over it. If he does it like that, with such even moments, it almost looks… Ryouma wonders what Xander would do it he simply stood up and started to stab him. Would Xander be shocked? Or would he take it with the quiet resignation that’s hiding behind those eyes? Ryouma is almost certain that if death came for Xander, he would take it as he takes everything; with the faintest bit of a smile behind his eyes.

He’s pitiable. He’s sorrowful. He’s terribly warped. Perhaps he was even born like that. Considering how King Garon has acted and how Queen Katarina was rumoured to behave, Xander didn’t have a chance. Ryouma would like to be a part of Xander’s trauma.

“Why is Kamui here?” Ryouma tries to bury his thoughts beneath a reasonable sociability.

Xander crawls onto the bed. There is something wrong with his eyes; something that wasn’t there before. It isn’t the unhinged look that the woman had in hers or the same cold gaze that Prince Leonard had. It isn’t like King Garon’s apathetic stare either. It’s just wrong. Deeply wrong. A black sea ready to swallow him up.

“Why so many whys? You never cared before.” Xander strokes Ryouma’s upper lip.

“I’m tired.” And his voice hurts from all the yelling. It was easy being angry before but the longer he stays angry for, the more tired he gets.

How could his father stay so angry for so many years? It must have eaten him up. Actually, that’s exactly what happened. It ate him up. True honour was swallowed away for the sake of his precious ‘pride’ and when his ‘pride’ had gone, there was nothing left but the rage.

Oh. So that’s how it is.

“So you’re not going to berate me anymore? Or try to escape? Or scream at the butler who was so kindly giving you water in my absence?” Xander replies.

“Talk normally, Xander. I want to see your natural self.” Ryouma says.

He isn’t sure why he says it. The words seem to float out of his mouth like balloons.

Xander lifts Ryouma up with an arm and forces him to stand. Even though you can thirty days without food and Ryouma has only been starved for eight, this is almost too much for him. He must have gone soft.

“Holding you feels nice, Lord Byakuya. It’s much like hugging a stuffed bear.” Xander snuggles into Ryouma’s back as he starts to force the stump of his arm onto one of the meat hooks.

Ryouma doesn’t bother trying to pull away. It’s pointless. He simply grunts as Xander threads the hook through his stump, forcing him to stand in this exact position. Xander then takes a length of rope and ties Ryouma’s other arm to the chain.

“I’m going to whip you now.” Xander smiles. “Nothing more.”

“I’m going home on Monday, aren’t I?” Ryouma asks.

“If you want to.”

“And what will you do after that, Xander?”

“I’m going to kill myself.” Xander laughs.

It is the most honest laugh that Ryouma has heard from Xander. It is not mechanical. It is not manic. It is not dramatized for company or for some petty Nohrian pride that Xander thinks he can rely on. If it’s anything, it’s a donkey’s braying. Yes, just like a donkey.

“I’ll do it for you.” Ryouma laughs.

Now that, that is a fake laugh. It crams all of Ryouma’s bitterness at being kept here with the pain of defeat into one convenient package. Not like Xander will notice.

Xander brushes his hand down Ryouma’s spine. The leather feels so warm although he has only been wearing the gloves for a few moments. Ryouma unconsciously curls into it. Xander pulls away before he can become fully accustomed to it.

The first lash comes as a shock. It peels away the top layer of skin with a smack. Flayed skin gives way to wells of blood which drip down Ryouma’s back with a frightening sense of urgency. Ryouma screams. He screams so hard that he starts to cry. Whether these are tears of anguish or anger, he doesn’t know nor does he even begin to know. It hurts. Isn’t that good enough?

Xander says something, probably the number of lashes, but Ryouma can’t hear it anymore.

The second lash is worse than the first. The skin of his lower back gets flayed and takes some of the top’s second layer with it. Where beads of blood were sprouting before, streams open up. They trickle down Ryouma’s back and ass before settling neatly on the ground in oppressively red pools. Ryouma bites down hard on his lip. He’s crying even harder than he was before but he will die before he lets Xander see. If he bites down like this, he can hide the sound at least.

The third lash is too much. Ryouma is certain that Xander has damaged a nerve with this swing since the pain throbs all the way to his brain. He pulls away only succeeding in dragging his stump partially down the hook. The muscles strain around it, threatening to snap.

“Enough! Enough! I’ve had enough!” Ryouma shrieks.

Xander presses his bulge up against Ryouma’s thigh.

“Have you?” He grabs Ryouma’s cock.

It’s hard. It’s hard! Ryouma’s body is betraying him yet again!

“Don’t touch me.” Ryouma cries so hard he starts laughing. “You disgust me.”

Xander shushes him. He rubs his hand down Ryouma’s wounds, smearing blood all across his tan skin. It burns. Everywhere that Xander touches burns. It’s as if Ryouma’s every nerve is alive in this moment; screaming as the skin and muscle around it is irrevocably violated.

“Am I filthy Ryouma?” Xander pushes his entire body against Ryouma’s.

The weight forces Ryouma up against the wall, mercifully taking some of the pressure off his stump.

“Well? Am I?” Xander whispers.

“I want to kill you.” Ryouma cries out.

Xander pulls the hook from his arm and lets him drops down onto the bed. Ryouma curls up in a heap and sobs. Xander shakes a bottle and pours it out over him. The bloody wounds on Ryouma’s stump and back heal instantly, leaving nothing behind but ugly scars. A memory that he can never forget.

“I have been waiting a long time to see you like this, Lord Byakuya.” Xander sighs. “I want you to understand me and why I have felt so helpless over these years. I want you to know why I feel like I have to do the things I do. I want you to understand me before I die.”

He kneels beside the bed and licks the curve of Ryouma’s spine.

“I think that you are the only person in the world who is able to.” Xander says.

“I’ll kill you.” Ryouma replies.

He’ll kill him. He’ll kill Camilla. He’ll kill Leo. Anyone that makes him feel this way, he’ll kill them.

“It would make me very happy if you did. Dying to the hands of the man that I admire, well, that’s not so bad?” Xander kisses Ryouma’s lower back.

Ryouma is a child of the Gods. He was born special and Raijinto is undeniable proof of that. He has no right to cry, yes, but no one has the right to make him cry either.

“I said I am going to kill you.” Ryouma says louder.

“Mmnhmn.” Xander replies. “Let’s make love.”

He pushes down on Ryouma’s back. The wounds have, ostensibly, healed yet the pain is still unbearable. Ryouma bites down on the mattress and screams into it. Xander steps away and grabs something off the shelf.

“I’m going to torture you to death. I will return to Hoshido and I will take my rightful spot as Emperor and I will come back here and I will torture you to death in this fucking room.” Ryouma sobs.

Xander flips him over with a hand and starts to slide oil down Ryouma’s cock. It’s methodical. Passionless. Done much in the way that a butcher would prepare meat.

“Don’t look at me like that!” Ryouma scratches at himself.

“Like what, Lord Byakuya?” He says it as if he’s speaking to a child.

Ryouma will tear out that insolent tongue.

“Like you love me!”

Xander smiles. From the depths of that sensitive heart to those eyes, so dark they almost look black, he smiles. It makes Ryouma want to vomit.

He climbs onto the bed and holds Ryouma’s wrist with one hand. With the utmost care he takes Ryouma’s head with his other hand and caresses the cheek. He leans in and kisses him. Ryouma gently melts into the kiss, not even bothering with a struggle.

“This is your last chance. If you want to hurt me badly, you ought to do it now.” Xander says.

Ryouma tries to move his arm to wipe his mouth but Xander doesn’t get off.

“Alright.” Xander laughs. “Kamui, please take care of Lord Byakuya in my stead. I’m sure he doesn’t want to touch my filthy, filthy body anymore.”

Kamui flops off his chair in what Ryouma presumes to be a drug-addled haze. Xander clicks his tongue.

“You can’t walk, idiot. Your legs were all rotten so big brother cut them off.” He picks Kamui up and sets him down on the futon mat beside Ryouma.

Ryouma closes his eyes. If this is how things are to be, he would rather not disgrace Kamui any further by watching him. And closing his eyes let Ryouma hide that, just a little bit, he wants this too.

Isn’t that disgusting? Surely, Mikito is looking down at him from heaven with contempt in her eyes. He wonders what her and his father are saying about him up there. They are probably gossiping about him all day and all night long. “What a pathetic creature.” she’s saying with her eyes full of tears of indignant rage as she watches what he is about to do to her beloved son. His father will agree, of course, although for entirely different reasons.

Kamui straddles Ryouma’s waist. Ryouma doesn’t have the nerve to open his eyes, He doesn’t have to, anyway, he can feel Kamui smiling.

“I love you Ryouma.” Kamui brushes his fingers over Ryouma’s stomach. “Please look at me.”

Ryouma grimaces. His brother’s body feels weak on top of him. Those white limbs have gotten almost as skinny as matchsticks and he can’t weigh more than ninety, no eighty, pounds anymore. He’s never going to be the same, is he? If that’s the case then he should just die. He should die here, right now, in this moment, as peacefully as he can. If only Ryouma had the strength to help him.

Kamui pushes down on Ryouma’s hips and slams down on his cock. He whimpers a little.

“Ah, Xander, it’s really big.” Kamui complains.

“I know.” Xander replies. “Just keep moving until you’re tired, little prince.”

Kamui clumsily raises his body and pushes it back down. Raise, push, raise, push. His skeletal arms shake with every movement, threatening to snap if he keeps going the way he’s going. Ryouma chokes down the rest of his pride and grabs him by the waist.

“Let me help.” Ryouma’s stomach aches. Something is crawling inside of it; chewing, sucking and crying before finally exploding in a wave of stomach acids and anxiety.

He pulls Kamui up and then gently lets him back down, effectively using that broken body like a toy. Kamui tightens around him with a groan.

“I love you.” He repeats like a broken record.

His shaft drips precum down onto Ryouma’s belly where it pools at the navel. Ryouma sneers. If he had his other arm, he’d wipe it away but it’s far too late to be thinking like that. He still doesn’t open his eyes.

“I love you too, Kamui.” Ryouma says without meaning it at all. Kamui can’t tell so it’s fine.

Xander wakes back over to Ryouma and sits beside him. He’s so close, Ryouma’s shoulder is brushing against his knee. This must be some kind of mockery.

“Let me give you a hand since you are clearly not enjoying yourself.” He says with the same ineffable tone that he has predicted in the span of only a week.

He takes something sharp off the shelf and scraps it against the metal. He presses the tip up against Ryouma’s stomach and drags it up and down. Trails of blood follow behind the knife. Ryouma bucks his hips up into Kamui, squeezing down on his waist until his nails dig in. Xander stifles Ryouma’s moan with his mouth. Completely disregarding sanity, Ryouma deepens the kiss and presses his chest against Xander’s ever so slightly. Xander smiles into it.

“Live glamorously.” Ryouma’s subconscious asks him in a hushed tone. “Live in your collapsing body like Xander lives in his. This is the way to happiness!”

It is a way more or less his own; something that his father can not co-opt and could never understand. If he posits it like this, it becomes somewhat tempting. But an oppressor is an oppressor and looking into Xander feels far too much like looking into himself. So when Xander tries to break their kiss, Ryouma bites down hard on his lip and tries to tear it away. He gets a mouthful of blood for his trouble.

“It smells like something is rotting in here.” Xander completely disregards his bloodied lip.

Kamui squeezes down on him again and Ryouma gasps. He scratches at the emancipated yet miraculously still supple flesh of Kamui’s waist until it turns his nails red. How lovely the wounds must look! How warm!

Xander stabs Ryouma in the thigh. He rakes it down to the knee, forming a gash at least six inches long and not too much unlike his own. Ryouma groans as Xander wedges his fingers inside of the hole. He orgasms and Kamui falls off him and onto the mat. Ryouma halfheartedly wraps an arm around him and starts to drift off.

“Don’t fall asleep yet!” Xander shakes Ryouma violently.

Ryouma forces his eyes open and stares at him.

“Before Monday comes, please, Lord Byakuya, tell me something important. Tell me anything. This is our last chance to say anything of any meaning tomorrow for I will only have you for half the day. Please.” Xander begs.

“If you want to die, you should just die.” Ryouma rolls over.

“Of course.” Xander laughs with an amazing sensibility.

Ryouma can feel his tears on his back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Never ask me for anything again.

**Author's Note:**

> If you have any complaints regarding the subject matter, take it to my complaints box at falgift.tumblr.com. Because I did not wrestle that URL just so you could PM me or start comment wars.
> 
> Edit: Look Friend, if you see spelling mistakes, put them in my inbox just be ssh.


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